Unlikely Crossroads
by Fallings Just Like Flying
Summary: After stumbling upon a young woman claiming to have the power to send people into the future, Sherlock Holmes finds himself unwillingly cast into the future with his dear friend Dr Watson, where he meets another Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson
1. A Cup of Tea, a Corpse, and a Trunk

******A/N: Hello readers! first off I'd like to thank you for giving my story a try. :D I promise not to be disappointing. Secondly, I can't promise that I will update every week. Unfortunately college homework is ten times worse than Highschool HW, and with that said my writing muses also tend to randomly stop working for short periods of time. I'm not entirely sure where this is going, and I'm sure there are other fanfics with this same idea but give it a shot. All the ideas are my own, I haven't read any Sherlock/SherlockHolmes fanfictions, just so i don't copy other authors. . . .any way. I hope you enjoy this, and please leave me a review, I'm only gonna go on with the story if I get 10 reviews. . .  **** I love to hear your incite. **

**ENJOY!**

**~Chels**

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

**_~1886~_**

"One sip 'tis all it takes and I can send you sailing into the distant future! Come, I ask you. What lies in our future?"

Sherlock Holmes sat alone on the park bench eyeing at the old gypsy woman shouting across the street to everyone that passed. Not a soul was paying any attention to her beckoning's except the detective. No one would have known, but he was picking her apart in his brilliant, jumbled head. Analyzing every movement she made, the tone of her voice, how she kept balancing her weight from foot to foot awkwardly. She stood in a most uncomfortable hunched over position, with a small sack of something, salt, no flour perhaps hidden under her shawl over her right shoulder. Her dark raven hair stuck out from under the gray façade, and her skin appeared to be more wrinkled than is should be. Obviously, it was a young woman hiding beneath a rather un-needed disguise. Her expression was strained from the heavy sack on her back, but she did well to hide it. What Holmes was uncertain of, was why the woman needed the costume at all. Perhaps she was attempting to hide from someone in particular, or perhaps the reason was more miniscule. Maybe for some bizarre reason she liked dressing like an old hag with a ten pound bag of flour positioned on her back. Holmes's mind raced through all sorts of possibilities until his curiosity won out and he strolled over to the street vendor.

"Care to go on a trip sir? I can-"

"Why are you wearing a disguise?" Holmes stated blatantly. He wasn't one for being subtle, that wasted too much time in his book.

The woman, caught off guard, was quickly defensive. "I assure you sir, I don't know what you mean. . ."

"Ah. . .now see you're lying to me. . ."

"I would never-"

Doctor Watson, who had been watching the entire banter from across the street, decided he'd better make his way over before things got completely out of hand, knowing just how impudent his friend could be.

"I leave you alone for ten minutes to pick up my pocket watch from the repairs and here you are harassing this poor old woman. I'm sorry ma'am."

Watson grabbed his friend's arm and tried pulling him away, but Holmes slapped the doctor's hand away. "Look again Watson! Any doctor should be able to see that this is no elderly woman!"

The doctor narrowed his gaze and focused on the woman. At first he, like the rest of the passer by s, couldn't see past the makeup, but using the deductive skills he procured while spending an unwarranted amount of time with his friend, everything became obvious.

"Alright explain." He demanded.

The woman's bright green eyes scanned the crowed before she whispered.

"Follow me. . ." She gestured, disappearing inside the small covered wagon she lived out of.

Holmes and Watson followed her inside the cramped space and sat where she told them to.

"Sherlock Holmes. Your reputation precedes you." The woman mused in her thick accent, removing her haggard disguise.

"And how, might I ask do you know my name?" he pushed, eyes narrow.

She smirked but said nothing to answer him. "And Doctor Watson, I presume, your friend does not give you enough credit. You are indeed quite cleaver." She removed a kettle from the stove and poured both men a cup of tea.

"Your accent, Transylvanian , am I correct? Or is that part of your little frontage?" Holmes asked taking a sip of the strong tea.

"You don't miss a thing do you Mr. Holmes?" she smiled, mildly impressed.

"No."

Watson rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry. But what did you say your name was?"

"Anthea. And yes, I was born in Transylvania." She paused and allowed Holmes and Watson to sip their drink. "But those facts are far too dismal for you to want to approach me Mr. Holmes. What did you really come over to me for?"

Holmes cleared his throat and sat his tea cup back in his saucer. "At first, I was merely intrigued by your appearance. A young woman dressed like an old hag? Seemed interesting enough. Now as I set here in this . . . residence I find myself interested in that potion of yours. Some sort of drink that takes you into the future…?" he laughed humorlessly.

"Does it work?" Watson asked, brows furrowed.

Before Anthea could speak, Holmes interrupted.

"Hardly. It is surely a mixture of various hallucinogenic drugs, notorious for making people believe what they are told to believe."

The doctor couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for Anthea. Holmes had a bad habit of making people feel like complete and utter idiots.

"Do you believe in magic Mr. Holmes?" Anthea asked, leaning forward gazing deep into Holmes' brown eyes.

"I believe in logic."

Anthea shook her head, disappointed. "Logic is dull. Where is the adventure in logic? Some of the most interesting occurrences are illogical. Someone of your genius, Mr. Holmes, should venture into things more riveting."

Holmes glared at her for a long while, causing Watson had to make sure his friend was still breathing.

"If I'm not mistaken my dear Watson. Miss Anthea here is questioning my methods."

"Oh God. . ." Watson sighed, knowing what kind of rant was sure to rise.

"Never have I been so insulted! I assure you that my intellect is of the utmost superiority among the humanoid species. Why would I waste it on trivial babble like magic!" Holmes stood up and downed the last of his tea before storming out.

Watson didn't leave a quickly as his friend, who he was sure was standing outside pouting like a small child. He finished his tea and thanked Anthea, apologizing.

"_Te in futurum_ Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson." Anthea murmured as the doctor left after his friend.

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><p><strong><em>~2012~<em>**

"What the hell are you doing!"

One would think that after living at 221B Baker Street, with the one and only Sherlock Holmes for over a year, John would be used to anything and everything. Yet somehow the detective still managed to conjure up things and scenarios that surprised him.

Unfortunately for the doctor, a god awful stench was fumigating from the kitchen all throughout their flat. The hideous smell made both his eyes and his nose burn; the fumes were far worse than anything he'd ever encountered. With one step inside the kitchen he knew why. A clothesline web suspended from the wooden cabinets supported many body parts known to man. They were hung with wooden close pins and dripped vile organic excrement onto the unprotected floor below. But the worst was yet to come, for lying on their kitchen table was the owner of the organs and limbs , with none other than Sherlock's head stuck in the dead man's chest cavity.

He wore no form of protection apart from the skin tight latex gloves on his hands; no face mask or hair net or apron to shield his clothes. Just his usual trousers and shirt.

His head was still submerged by the time John decided to ask again, clearing his throat.

"Sherlock. What it god's name are you doing?" in all honesty he wasn't expecting a reply for perhaps an hour, thirty minutes least. When Sherlock was hard away at work he usually only spoke to himself, mumbling incoherent obscenities that seemed irrelevant to the case he was working on at any given time. Somehow though, it all made perfect sense – to Sherlock

"Got him from Barts' Morgue." Sherlock mused, finally removing his head from the dead man. "Told Lestrade he was innocent, but he insisted on gunning him down . Although I couldn't be sure he was innocent until I had the proper evidence, Lestrade wouldn't let me look at the body in the morgue at the time . ." his voice trailed off as he studied something he'd apparently pulled from the body.

John shook his head, stopping as he realized how Sherlock had brought the corpse into their flat. "You stole his body from the hospital!"

"Of course." Sherlock stated. "How else was I supposed to get to it?"

"You obviously got to it somehow." John gestured to the body. "It's in our kitchen!"

"Yes thank you for that fact. Can I please get back to my studies now?"

John stepped farther out of the kitchen, growing tired of the discomfort growing in the pit of his stomach. One time, just one time it would've been nice to come back to the flat they shared and not have some sort of purified corpses or angry Siberian assassins waiting for him. Luckily the assassins thing hadn't happened yet as far as John was aware, but he didn't doubt for second the possibility of that one day happening.

"You do at least plan on taking it back to Bart's, don't you?" John asked, placing himself in his usual chair. He waited a long time for an answer before finally just opened the post.

"Yes of course," Sherlock assured his friend. "as soon as I'm thoroughly finished."

"Which will take how long exactly?" John pressed.

Sherlock clenched his jaw and composed himself quickly. "Centuries if you don't shut up this second!"

John sighed and decided to save his breath and sanity, as there was no arguing with Sherlock when he was busy.

By nightfall, the flat still reeked of decaying human flesh and Sherlock was still shoulders deep inside of the dead man's body. John knew it should be crazy, in fact, he was certain that it was crazy, but he'd passed caring a longtime ago. In the beginning everything Sherlock did was both odd and fascinating, while verging on terrifying and psychotic; John now just found everything … Sherlock. There was really no other way to describe the things he did. Sherlock was Sherlock and that wasn't about to change, not even in the slightest.

"What could you possibly be doing for it to take this long?" John called from his usual seat. He refused to go into the kitchen while Sherlock had his head in a corpse.

"I've been done for an hour or so. Just examining his vertebrae."

"What? Why?"

"He suffered from a rather mild case of Scoliosis, although he never had it treated before he died. . ." his voice trailed off.

"Yes, and why does that matter?"

For the first time all evening, Sherlock emerged from his 'laboratory/morgue'. Unfortunately the putrid odor followed him like an invisible, thick fog and lingered where ever he stood. John's nose wrinkled, but Sherlock didn't seem bothered by it.

"Future reference John!" he spouted, he tapped his head a few times. "Hard drive remember? Gathering new information is always a good thing."

"Oh right." The doctor huffed. "Hard drive."

Sherlock paced back and forth momentarily while John followed him with his eyes. The longer his friend stayed in the room the worse the smell became and finally John couldn't stand it any longer.

"Take it back."

Sherlock stopped and looked at him quizzically.

"What?"

"The dead man. Take him back to Bart's and then take a shower. You smell bloody awful"

Sherlock frowned but surprisingly didn't say anything. Instead he slumped back into the kitchen, and appeared five minutes later with a solid, plastic crate containing the dead man's organs. Before John could ask, Sherlock thrust the container into his friend's arms then disappeared into his room only to return into the kitchen with a white lab coat. John didn't move, partially because of the container he was forced to hold, and also because the ruckus coming from the kitchen was quite disturbing.

"Come along John. Bring the organs." Sherlock bellowed as he hauled something down the stairs.

"Jesus…" the doctor sighed and went after his friend.

With a large trunk placed by his feet, Sherlock hailed a cab. John got an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, as he looked down at it. A taxi pulled to the cub and Sherlock lifted the trunk into the seat with a grunt and got in. John hesitated then handed Sherlock the crate of various organs and got in as well.

"Please tell me you didn't put the body in that trunk." John whispered so the driver didn't hear him.

". . .His body's not in the trunk . . ." came his slow response

"Sherlock!"

"How else was I supposed to get it back!" Sherlock argued.

"Well how did you get it to Baker Street?" John asked lowering his voice again.

Sherlock eyed his friend knowingly, and it didn't take long for John to realize that the trunk was the key suspect in the whole operation. The doctor had to admit that he was impressed by Sherlock's ability to sneak the body of a full grown man out of a morgue using a trunk while wearing a lab coat, but that was beyond the point.

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><p><strong>AN: Don't forget to review! xD **


	2. Mundane Mornings

**A/N: Here is the nexy chapter just like I promised! Its not quite as long, but I think you'll be pleased with it. :) Dont forget to leave me a review. . . the more I get the faster I'll update! ENJOY!**

** - Chels**

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><p><strong>Chapter Two <strong>

John waited patiently outside the morgue with the plastic tub of organs at his feet, while Sherlock placed the body he'd stolen back in its rightful place.

Molly was inside hunched over another poor lifeless form when Sherlock barged in, dragging the trunk behind him.

"Oh," Molly chirped seeing the tall detective. "Hello." She did her best to hide both her smile and her blush, but it was rather difficult to fool someone as sharp-eyed as Sherlock Holmes.

"Evening." He said, bending down to open the trunk.

"Wha- Oh my- uh"

"Don't act surprised Molly. You deal with corpses on a daily basis. . ." Sherlock stated callously.

"Yes, well, um. Who is he?" She asked timidly, fiddling with her fingers.

"I believe you already know that answer," Sherlock remarked, "I was just bringing him back." He placed the half mutilated body on an available slab and covered it with a sheet.

"Bringing him back?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, restraining from saying anything that could potentially hurt Molly's feelings, and went to fetch the organs John was looking after.

"Ar-Are those his…?" Molly asked when she saw the plastic container he had brought in.

"Yes obviously. Where should I leave them?"

Molly hesitated momentarily, her mouth hanging a gape. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, Sherlock always made her nervous. Every time the curly haired detective stepped into the morgue, her heart skipped a beat and all her senses ceased to function. She made a proper idiot out of herself, even if Sherlock didn't.

Outside the morgue entrance John waited idly while his friend placed the body in its rightful place. He teetered back and forth from his heels to his toes, glancing up and down the empty, bleak hall. Sherlock was certainly taking his good, sweet time to put a dead man back on a slab; he started to worry that maybe his friend was unintentionally-intentionally dressing-down Molly like usual. For her sake, he decided to investigate.

"What's taking so long?" John asked sauntering through the set of double doors.

"Just finishing up." Sherlock shot the doctor one of his infamous quick smiles that was his way of attempting to lighten the mood. Since Molly hadn't yet informed him of a proper place to set the man's dissected organs, Sherlock left them at her feet.

"Good Evening, Molly. I'll trust you with his innards," The tall dark haired detective muttered, flipping up the collar of his white coat and making his way for the exit.

"Come along John."

Doctor Watson and Molly exchanged a final glance before he turned on his heel and exited the morgue.

"What eh, what did you say to her this time?" John asked as they walked down the hall.

"What do you mean?"

"Molly. What did you do this time?"

Sherlock eyed his shorter friend. "I simply answered her questions."

Johns brows furrowed. "Then why did she look like you just ran over her dog?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't know."

John sighed, rolling his eyes, and as he did he caught a whiff of the odor radiating from Sherlock frame.

"Maybe it's just because you smell bloody _vile_."

Sherlock frowned, said nothing, and continued out of the hospital. The crisp, night air kissed his face as a subtle breeze blew his dark curls in a mess of tangled spirals. Even at the lateness of the hour, normal people hurried down the walkways, going on with their dull lives like they did every day. Sherlock pursed his lips and pulled the doctor's coat around his small torso to shield himself form the cold while John took the liberty of hailing a cab to take them back to Baker Street.

The next morning, 221B was much less exciting. There were no body parts of any sort strewn across the kitchen table or hanging from the cabinets- that John knew of anyway- and there was no vicious maniac assassin waiting to destroy them both. Things were a little too mundane, and Sherlock did not function well with mundane.

At the moment, John was enjoying the undisturbed quiet, sitting in his usual chair with his laptop and a hot cup of coffee, documenting the adventure he'd taken part in the night before to his blog. Sherlock on the other hand was still in his pajamas, laying upside down on the couch mumbling angrily to himself.

John gazed at his friend across the way with a concerned look on his face. Sherlock seemed to be having an argument with himself, which was never a good sign. He'd done it one time before, and it had resulted in a broken window, a stove fire, and the unfortunate death of three very unlucky pigeons. The doctor knew that any second Sherlock would snap and start shouting like a mad man, not to mention his senseless whining.

With a sigh, John sipped his coffee and returned to the task of updating his blog while watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye. Every minute, right down to the second, the detective checked his phone for a missed call, a text, anything that would make him less bored. Certainly he was checking to see if Lestrade needed him, and from the angry cursing and child-like pouting it was evident that he wasn't needed at the moment. Finally he furiously chucked the mobile phone across the room, making a land right in front of the fire place.

"John. . ." Sherlock spoke suddenly, still hanging off the couch. His dark brown curls bounced just inches off the floor and his bare feet tapped on the wall irritably. His pale face was beginning to turn to a rather alarming shade of red due to all of his blood rushing to it, and John wondered why he hadn't passed out yet. Sherlock undoubtedly was the most childlike adult John had ever met.

"Johnnnn!" He drug out the name, hopping to gain his flat mate's attention by doing so.

John rolled his eyes and stopped typing. "What?"

"Must you insist on typing up everything I do?"

The doctor frowned and narrowed his gaze. "You realize when you attempt small talk you just end up insulting everyone in the room." John could name more than one conversation that had resulted in tears, punches and name calling. Sherlock may have been a genius, but his brilliance lacked in the area of proper people skills.

"I was simply asking a question." Sherlock specified.

"No you weren't." John shook his head. "You're just bored."

Sherlock maneuvered himself to an upright position on the sofa and drummed his fingers feverishly on his knees. "I suppose you wouldn't want me to shoot the wall again."

"Uh, no!"

Sherlock sneered. "I though not."

"Watch tele, or update your website!" John suggested, looking back to his computer screen.

Sherlock uttered a noise, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, grabbing his head and squeezing his eyes shut. "My mind is far too pensive for such mediocre things to cater to my mentality. Only a case will suit my ravenous mind, John."

The doctor watched with pursed lips and a raised brow as his friend pulled both of his legs onto the sofa cushion and hugged them, rocking back and forth slightly.

"All of my thoughts, everything I've ever put away in my mind, is racing around inside my head like angry beasts; clawing and fighting each other for dominance." He continued manically "I need a distraction, a case. Something not ordinary or dull to occupy my thoughts, before I go completely mad. . ." His voice trailed off, matching the dreamlike gloss overlaying his crystal eyes, as he spoke the last part of his rant.

For about sixty seconds, John just watched Sherlock rock back and forth on the sofa, biting his lip and staring off into the distance. The doctor was actually beginning to worry his friend needed some actual professional help this time around. John had dealt with a lot and seen him at his worst while living with Sherlock on Baker Street, but this was starting to get a little scary.

"Sherlock. . ."

No response.

". . Sherlock!"

The blue eyed detective snapped out of his trance and looked at the doctor.

"You okay?"

"Fine. . ." Sherlock muttered eyeing his phone on the floor angrily.

With a long sigh, he gave up. Sherlock was just going to have to find something to occupy himself with until a case turned up.

Then his phone rang. . .

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><p><strong>AN: okay now for the next chapter I could do one of two things. I could either start it off as I had origanlly planed, or I can wite a chapter about Holmes and Watson realizing they are no longer in 19th century London, then pick up with my origanl plan. . . let me know! (And don't forget to review!)**


	3. The Curious Case of Nani Hanover

**A/N: Here is chapter three! I decided to just go on with what I had originally planed. Holmes and Watson should show up shortly. . . still trying to figure out how to bring them into this centruy. . .but I'm sure I can figure it out. Be sure to check my profile for updates on how my writing is coming, and when the next chapters are gonna be up. :)**

***Also, this chapter is a bit on a the gorey side. . . thought I'd warn ya :P**

**ENJOY!**

**~Chels**

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><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

John was certain he'd never seen Sherlock move as fast as he did to answer his phone. In one long beastlike leap he avoided the small coffee table and landed just inches from his mobile, and John's feet. Mildly awestruck, John gawked at the dark haired man, impressed by his animal like bound.

"Sherlock Holmes." He stated answering his mobile phone.

John could make out Lestrades voice on the other end of the phone, as well Sargent Donavan's irritated remarks in the background. The man in the chair watched Sherlock's facial expressions trying to figure out what was being said. Sherlock raised one side of his mouth in a genuine smirk, and a twinkle lit his once glazed over eyes.

"Oh delightful. I'm on my way."

Sherlock hung up, and swiftly stood, swaggering to his room, the back of his dressing gown flowing behind him like a silky, blue cape. It was funny how one simple phone call could completely alter Sherlock's mood.

In a matter of minutes, the tall detective emerged from his chamber fully dressed, with a devious smirk touching his thin lips. Using instantaneous movements he removed his long coat and scarf from the back of the door and shrugged into the dark, heavy fabric.

"Coming?" he chirped, tying the blue scarf around his neck.

John hesitated. He had absolutely no plans for the evening, and didn't really want to sit around the flat all afternoon. And to be honest, John couldn't resist a case just as much as Sherlock, although the doctor wasn't quite as dramatic about _not_ having a case to work on.

Without having to hear his friend say a word, Sherlock smiled a little wider. John would follow, and Sherlock was grateful for the company. Talking aloud to an actual person- ordinary or not- always helped the detective think better.

John shut his computer and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, rushing to keep up with his friend who was already making his way down stairs.

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><p>"You'll like this one." Lestrade said leading the detective and the doctor to the scene of the crime. "bit grisly though."<p>

The area to which the duo had been summoned to was Whitechapel. It, like the rest of the busy town of London, was flocked with pubs and bars and various hotels and shops. Sherlock new every part of his city like the back of his hand, although even he had to admit that this specific part of town had changed ever so slightly. Shops that he remembered from his last visit where no longer in business or had changed names altogether. The really important data was still the same though; like streets and monuments, all of which were what mattered to Sherlock at present.

Sherlock removed his gloves and loosened his scarf as he followed the detective inspector down the walkway of a residential part of Whitechapel.

"Carnage doesn't alarm me and John was a military doctor." Sherlock stated almost boredly.

The scene Lestrade brought them to was different from what one would find on a normal visit to Whitechapel, although it held a familiar exterior to the detective and the doctor- police cars, ambulances, flashing lights, emergency personnel and Sargent Donavin glaring irritability as Sherlock and John walked past her. The interior however was always infinitely more interesting.

The Inspector lead them up to the second floor of a rather expensive flat and into a bedroom. Almost instantly the rich, metallic stench of blood consumed all three men upon entering the room. It was a sight that one could only imagine. The white walls were painted with a thick rainbow of crimson fluid, dripping in long narrow streaks downward into puddles on the wooden floor. Laying diagonally across a blood soaked bed was the mangled body of a young woman. Her throat had been severed from ear to ear, and the lower half of her abdomen was sliced open. Her emerald green eyes, gazed at the textured ceiling above in a lifeless, hollow trance that would spook most people.

Sherlock however, despite the fact that a young woman had been the victim of one of the most brutal murders he'd ever had the profound pleasure of working on, found the entire scene rather impressive. The blood splatter on the wall, and the position of the body painted a grotesque picture that only Sherlock himself would have been crazy enough to conger up, but he had not.

"Her name is Nani Hanover, Twenty-Six. The land lady heard a ruckus and found her already dead. " The Detective Inspector explained handing John and Sherlock each a pair of latex gloves. "Time of death couldn't have been long ago-"

"No, in fact, you arrived a matter of minutes after this took place." Sherlock stated in his usual deep monotone. The tall man in the coat moved closer, pulling a small magnifying glass from his pocket and began to evaluate. "Our victim is wealthy probably an arias. The attacker came at her from the front, and there was a slight struggle before her quick death. The killer has little to no familiarity to organ placement. Also our attacker was right handed, and knew the victim personally . . ." Sherlock moved swiftly around the room as John and Lestrade watched, taking in all the information pouring out of the genius's' mouth. "The murder had small unsteady feet. . ." Sherlock added glancing at a rug on the floor.

Lestrude frowned. "How do my boys miss all of that?"

"_Your boys_, only see where as I _observe_. Must I always repeat myself?" Sherlock huffed removing the tight latex gloves from his hands.

"Okay. Now explain." John demanded.

With an annoyed sigh, Sherlock obliged. "The blood on the wall is still wet and dripping, therefore it hasn't been more than a half hour at the most since Miss Hanover's murder. The temperature of the body would've even been obvious to your lot." He jabbed, eyeing the Detective Inspector. "Her skin is pale, but doesn't hold a purple hue or a waxy texture. So she was killed less than half an hour ago. There's a scrape on her left elbow and turned over furniture." he continued " Which suggests a struggle before the death. The murder wouldn't have purposefully cut the victims elbow, so they fought. Her eyes are open, so death came quickly, the most sensible solution the cut throat, which was sliced from left to right, therefor our killer is right handed. Her lower half has been viciously mutilated. Which implies our killer knew little about human anatomy making it difficult to find and remove specific organs."

"Organs?" Lestrade inquired

"Yes, she's missing at least two organs. . ."

"You said the victim knew the person who killed her?" John asked changing the subject.

"Obviously. To attack from the front the killer would have had to been hiding behind something, but look around. A big open room like this." Sherlock spread his arms out for emphasis. "There's nowhere to hide. Thus meaning the victim knew the killer, well enough to let them inside and trust them."

"Okay," Lestrade sighed scratching the back of his head. "So our suspect knew Miss Hanover. Isn't a doctor, and has small feet. Is there nothing else you can give me Sherlock?"

The detective pursed his lips and pressed his hand to them in a praying position, lost in deep thought. The room fell into an eerie stillness, making the odor of drying blood more potent the longer they stood still. Both the doctor and the Inspector waited patiently for Sherlock to resurface from his deep thought's.

"John." Sherlock spoke suddenly, "Care to elaborate as to which organs or killer has taken?"

John swallowed, nodded, and sauntered over the dead girl on the bed. It had been a while since the doctor had seen trauma of this magnitude, but he had a strong stomach. He held his breath as he took a closer look, finding the stink of decaying flesh rather unpleasant.

"Her intestines are missing." He said still examining the carnage. Johns brows furrowed, and he looked closer.

"What else?" Sherlock pried.

The doctor hesitated. ". . .her uterus."

Sherlock gasped, and the side of his thin mouth pulled into a smile. "Fascinating. . ."

"Why would the killer take –" Lestrade started.

"There's something hauntingly familiar about this" Sherlock interrupted, placing his hands to his lips again. "Something most definitely familiar. . ."

"Like what?" John asked.

"Not sure. . . . ." he paused, consumed by his thoughts once more momentarily. "That's all I can give to you for now Lestrade, I need to think on this one, I'll have more for you by nightfall. Text me if anything else calls for my methods."

In a blur Sherlock spun around and was halfway down the stairs before John was able to reach him. Despite the situation at hand, a cooked smirk was firmly planted on the tall detectives lips. There was something about this case that pleased him more than one he'd ever worked on before.

"You know." John started as they walked out of the building and onto the street. "People might get the wrong idea with that smile on your face."

"This case though John." He said, his smirk growing. "This case reeks of a brilliant mind gone to waste on hatred and angst. Someone, somehow hurt our killer to an emotional extent . . . the question is who. . .and how?"


	4. Hallucinations and Jack the Ripper

**A/N: Here's chapter four! Took me a little longer to brain storm how I wanted this chapter to play out, and I think you'll all enjoy it! Thank you all for your marvolous reviews. . . .I hope you stick with me to the end! :) **

**ENJOY!**

****And I'd like to thank my AMAZING Beta Reader Ivory Winter. She is wonderful!****

**~Chels**

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><p><strong>Chapter Four<strong>

_Strange sounds were the first things that made Holmes realize that something was undoubtedly wrong. Throughout his years as a spectacularly brilliant consulting detective__**,**__ Holmes had realized that sounds were by far one of the most important pieces of data one could use when deducing a specific scenario. These noises though were something completely unfamiliar to him. As he sluggishly began to drift back into coherency__**,**__ all of his senses slowly returned as well. The air around him felt cold, which didn't surprise him__**;**__ it was the middle of February, and bitter air was to be expected. Rain was beginning to fall in small singular drops that rolled down his scruffy face and onto the stone ground on which he was laying. The smells were just as strange as the noises. Although he detected the scents of various perfumes and stench of body odor, there were also smells that matched that of machinery._

_Consumed with both confusion and an excessive amount of curiosity, he allowed his brown eyes to lift open, and what he saw was something he'd never seen before._

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><p>Sherlock lay on the sofa, hands together at his lips, eyes closed, barely breathing, with both feet dangling over the end of the piece of furniture. He'd given his flat-mate specific instructions not to make any noise while he was thinking unless John was instructed to do so. John sat in his chair with a hot cup of tea at his side<strong>, <strong>reading one of the many books in Sherlock's collection, stealing a glace his friend's way just to be sure that he actually was still breathing. He hadn't moved a centimeter in the hour and a half since they'd been back at the flat, and John was growing tired of just sitting. Sherlock could most likely sit the rest of the night, not moving, or eating or anything**.** John however needed to get up and stretch his legs, and write down notes documenting their explorations this evening.

"Nicotine patches. . ."

Startled slightly by the first sound in over an hour, John looked at the detective. He hadn't moved, or opened his eyes at all, but it was him that had spoken in his deep monotone.

"I'm sorry**,** what?"

"Get me my nicotine patches."

With a sigh, John placed his book aside and went to fetch the half empty box of nicotine patches from the kitchen.

"Would it kill you to go get something for yourself sometime?" John muttered**,** holding out the box.

"I'm thinking John, I don't expect your average mind to comprehend how important it is that I not bother myself with such ordinary activities—"

"Yes, yes. Alright. Here." John dropped the small box on Sherlock's chest**, **cutting him off. Sherlock took out four unused beige bandage**-**like patches and placed them in a perfect line on his left forearm, and placed his hands back to their previous position at his mouth.

"Four patches this time?" John asked with a raised brow.

"There's something about this case. . ." he drifted off momentarily. "Four patches are necessary."

John tightened his lips then decided to try and be somewhat productive since his flat**-**mate obviously wasn't in a talking mood. He placed himself in front of his computer that was located on the table littered with stacks of papers, case files and encyclopedias, and began to type.

* * *

><p><em>Holmes sat up, still mildly disoriented from whatever had caused him to fall unconscious, with his mouth hanging slightly agape. He was in London, that he was sure of, but the landscape was vastly different than he remembered it being. Resting his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, he sat up, watching life around him<em>_**,**__ completely enthralled with every new sight. The buildings stretched high into the grey clouded sky like towering pines in a thick eastern European forest. The gas lamps lining the walk ways and the road had been replaced by lamps containing some sort of glowing orb, and the carriages no longer appeared to need horses to power them. The carriages themselves looked rather strange, almost machine like__**,**__ but in an assortment of colors and designs, with similar glowing orbs to light the darkening street. Holmes sat, mesmerized by the machines and how impressive the velocity of them was. _

_Next he took to observing the passing citizens and their bizarre habits. Women passed wearing trousers and jackets with boots –the typical style of a man; what about dresses? Corsets and elegant, silk dresses didn't seem to be a clothing option anymore. Women and men alike wore their hair at different lengths and some even had unnatural, bright pigments, which Holmes found intriguing but rather absurd. Almost half of them walked around with some small device held to their ears, talking into it as if it were a human being. Children carried similar devices, with long white cords connecting to their ears. Nearly none of the passing citizens were paying him any attention. Instead, they stepped over his outstretched legs as if he were merely part of the sidewalk. _

_Everything around him was familiar and foreign at the same time. He was in London, but not the London he knew. It had shifted dramatically from the time he fell unconscious to the moment he gained it back. There was something unsettling about that thought. London was all Holmes ever knew, and he was proud of the knowledge he had of it, but suddenly he found himself in a situation he never thought he would ever endure. The scene around him was something his rational mind could not wrap itself around; the things he was witnessing defied all logic and understanding. _

_As he began to look around, the very last thing he deduced about his current situation was the undeniable fact his only friend in the world was nowhere to be seen._

* * *

><p>"If you insist on typing, do you think you could take it elsewhere for the time being?" Sherlock requested boredly. ". . . <em>Please?"<em>

John sighed, mentally debating on whether it was worth it to argue or not, and decided to save his breath and respect his friend's wishes. He gathered his laptop, notepad, and cup of tea, making his way upstairs to his bedroom.

"You know where I'll be if you need anything," he called, already guessing the response his statement would receive.

"Why would I need you?"

"Never mind Sherlock**,**" John sighed.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock Holmes found himself trapped in situation that stumped him more so than any case he'd ever worked on; he didn't know what to do, and he didn't like it. For a short while he doubted himself and panic was quickly creeping into his system like a lethal toxin set to destroy him. His mind slowed down from its usual frantic rushing, trying to grasp the fact that he was both in an unfamiliar scenario, and without his companion. He felt numb, empty and frightened, things which he thought were only stirrings the normal people had the discomfort of feeling, and yet he sat on the cold stone walk way, rain falling onto his thick head of dark locks. <em>

_Eventually, he regained control of himself got to his feet. The first logical thing that graced his mind was to__**,**__ of course__**,**__ find Watson. Surely he must have experienced the same shock and amazement that Holmes had just unwillingly gone through. The question was where would be the first place Watson would go if he were in such a situation in this moment. The answer was obvious to Holmes._

_221B Baker Street._

* * *

><p>It was only about an hour or so before the ruckus from downstairs stole the peaceful ambiance of John's evening of solitude. Although disturbing the peace was somewhat of a daily activity living with Sherlock, and to be honest John wouldn't have it any other way.<p>

Finishing his last sentence, he placed the computer to the side and with a grunt, scooted off of the bed to make his way to the main flat. Surprisingly, the damage this time wasn't as bad as it had been in the past. Most of the mess was due to books and paper blanketing the floor**,** apart from a broken, inexpensive vase and a coffee mug.

John stood in the doorway, watching his friend climb on tables and seat cushions to reach books on the top shelf. The corners of his lips pulled into a smirk.

"Come up with something did we?" John asked, folding his arms at his chest.

"Jack the Ripper."

"Who?"

"Jack the Ripper. 19th century serial killer of five unfortunate women never caught or found. . ." Sherlock ripped a large, old leather bound book from the top shelf and blew off the dust. From the slight hint of a smile, it was obvious he'd found what he was looking for.

"Yes, right. And what does a hundred and twenty year old serial killer have to do with the Hanover case?"

Sherlock flipped wildly through the pages, running his finger down each yellowed page, in search for something he deemed useful. "The way the body was found. Throat cut, abdomen mutilated, missing organs. I should have figured it out sooner."

He became quiet and his piercing eyes scanned the page he had stopped on at least two or three times over. John waited impatiently for his friend to speak, his interest growing rapidly.

"Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary Jane Kelly."

"Who are they?"  
>Sherlock smirked. "They are considered to be the canonical five Ripper victims. All brutally killed, all unfortunates. It's funny." Sherlock slammed the book shut and tossed it to the side.<p>

"What is?"

"The Hanover girl. The wounds that killed and the way the body was found match a part of canonical five. Nichols**'** throat was sliced open as well as her abdomen. Same for Chapman, only it's documented that her uterus was missing when they found her. Eddowes' throat was cut, and Stride's abdomen was mutilated and her neck was slit. Kelly was the interesting one, found lying across a bed, blood splattered on the wall, only her entire body was missing its organs, even her heart." He laughed darkly. "Oh this is going to be a fun case. I can feel it."

John picked up the book Sherlock held previously and turned to the Ripper case file page, looking it over. "So you think the killer did it intentionally or was it just coincidence?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No such thing as coincidence John. There is always a deliberate reason. . . Now phone Lestrade, we should warn him that this case isn't going away anytime soon."

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><p><strong>AN: Dont forget to let me know what you thought! :D**


	5. Locked Doors and Strange Calls

**A/N: I apologize that it took so long to get this chapter up! I was super busy with my college finals, but now I'm out for the summer and have lots more free time to focus on this story! Also, the longer I write this the more I realize how unhappy I am with the title. . . I was thinking about re-titling it, but I wanted your guys's opinion before I changed it. And also I'm open to ideas for different titles cause right now I'm out of ideas . Who knows, I might use your idea!**

**Enjoy chapter 5 and let me know what you guys thought!**

**~Chels**

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><p>Chapter 5<p>

"Jack the Ripper? Are you sure?" Lestrade's astonished voice rang out from Sherlock's phone.

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock rebutted shortly. Anyone who knew Sherlock should have known better than to question his observations. The detective expected strangers to query his abilities, but it was just ridiculous when people like John and Lestrade didn't believe him.

"So it's going to happen again?" Sherlock heard the rustling of papers from the other side of phone, deducing that Lestrade was preparing to take notes.

"Most definitely." Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the thought of another grotesque murder.

"Great," Lestrade sighed. "Okay Sherlock, what can you give me?"

* * *

><p><em>The sky was growing darker, and the weather was still less then pleasing, as Holmes sauntered his way down the busy <em>New_ London streets. With his mind back in a somewhat normal state, he deduced that he must be in some illusion, brought on by whatever he'd ingested. Although, ninety-nine percent of the time when he was experiencing delusions, he knew what was real and what wasn't. This, whatever this was, felt real, but his mind was fighting against what he saw. _

_He'd always trusted his senses, what he saw or smelt or could feel, to help him deduce every possibility for any scenario. And while he gazed at civilian life around him, his mind and senses working spectacularly, he still couldn't comprehend the inexplicable paradox in which he found himself. He needed to be back at Baker Street in his old, ratted dressing gown, confined in solitude and darkness to think everything over. And hopefully Watson would already be there to greet him. Where else would the doctor go if he was thrust into a similar situation as Holmes? Baker Street seemed to be the only logical place for him to go in order to find his friend, as well as gather his thoughts._

* * *

><p>A while later, Mrs. Hudson entered the cluttered living space of 221B. She sighed, looking at the books and broken glass strewn across the room. Several sharp shards of blue tinted glass from a broken vase crunched under her step as she walked into the room. She didn't know how either of them could stand living in such a muddled, dangerous space. At least this evening she could breathe without taking in a wiff of decaying human flesh. John was standing idly in the middle of the wreckage, flipping through a rather large, leather book, while Sherlock spoke on the phone.<p>

"You boys sure do know how to make a mess of things." She folded her arms gently across her chest and shook her head.

John laughed, setting the old book on the mantelpiece. "This is all Sherlock's doing," he said, gesturing to the floor.

"Have a case on then?" she asked, moving to look for plates of half eaten dinner to put away. Although she claimed to only be John and Sherlock's landlady, she often wandered into their flat to straighten up small things, knowing anything more would upset Sherlock's keen senses.

"Yeah," John said scratching the back of his head. "He keeps going on about Jack the Ripper. Don't think Lestrade believes him."

The pair stood in the center of the room, Mrs. Hudson with a dirty plate in her hand, watching Sherlock pace back and forth, giving the Inspector a list of details from both the Hanover murder and the Ripper murders. Mrs. Hudson shrugged and went into the kitchen. "At least he's got something that'll keep that funny ol' head of his busy."

John nodded with a slight chuckle, going to help put dishes away. "This morning I thought he was going to have a fit. Lucky Lestrade called in time."

"Missed the break in though."

"Break in?" John almost dropped the plate she had just handed him. "Wha- What? When did this happen?"

The landlady shrugged. " Earlier when you boys were out with that handsome Inspector fellow. It was nothing too exciting. The man tried to pick the lock, with a hair pin of all things, and when I opened the door he claimed he lived in your flat. He was rather confused and seemed harmless. I phoned the police and they came and got him. Poor fellow. He was all dressed fancy like."

"You should have called us."

She laughed. "I wasn't going to disrupt your fun."

Sherlock's mildly irritated tone interrupted their conversation as the tall detective stepped into the small kitchen. "I would have your people on the lookout Inspector. You know where to find me if anything develops." He hung up and sat the phone on the kitchen table. Sherlock didn't say anything right away, lost somewhere inside his thoughts.

"So," John said after a few minutes. "Someone tried to break into our flat."

The detective didn't say anything.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" The lanky detective's focus was on the mobile phone in his hand, seemingly uninterested with John's obvious concern. The blue-ish glow from the small backlit screen illuminated the sharp contours of his narrow face in the dim lamp light, making the smirk on his thin lips visible.

"Some man tried to break into our flat." John repeated, putting away the newly washed plate Mrs. Hudson handed him.

"Yes," he murmured, still preoccupied by his hand held device. "Bit extraneous now. You heard Mrs. Hudson, 'nothing too exciting'. I need not concern myself with such futile circumstances."

John sighed, shaking his head. At least no one was hurt and nothing was stolen. Mrs. Hudson wasn't shaken by the burglar. In fact from the way she described the man, John wondered if their landlady hadn't invited him in for tea before the police picked him up. Both Mrs. Hudson and John finished the dishes, disregarding the jar of human ears while Sherlock went to play some rather morbid sounding notes on his violin.

* * *

><p><em>A slight wave of relief washed over Holmes when his dark eyes landed upon the entrance of 221B. In the back of his mind he'd feared that with this changed world around him, that he might find his home no longer on Baker Street. He stood across the way, gazing at the old building. The same bricks, although faded over time, still made up the structure. By the coloration of the masonry he could tell which bricks had been replaced, and the door had been changed at least three different times based upon the state of the hinges. The paint had chipped in a number of different areas, especially around the bottom. <em>

_He hesitated a few seconds, and then stepped onto the street. Horns blared and tires screeched while the man made his way across the street, not paying attention to the large machines and angry pedestrians. The once unobservant citizens were now completely aware of Mr. Holmes' presence. They gawked unbelievably at the man walking blindly through the moving traffic, while he seemed oblivious of the danger of his actions. _

_Holmes though was focused solely on the door to his flat, and getting inside. He reached for the doorknob, expecting it to turn easily and allow him entrance. To his bewilderment, when he attempted to turn it, nothing happened. His brows furrowed and his lips puckered. He didn't lock the door, not usually. Sherlock Holmes stood at the door, eyeing the brass knob which seemed to mock him._

_He gently stroked the shiny door knob a third time, as if somehow doing so would unlock the door. His rapid mind eventually came to the only logical solution. Picking the lock. Picking locks was the one something that he could never get right on the first try. Of course he usually relied on the good doctor to break down the locked doors on a case, but the detective would have to do this one on his own. Regrettably, the tools that usually aided him in the criminal task of lock picking were inside his locked flat, therefore making the task even more bothersome. He would have to find something else to help him do the job._

* * *

><p>Things had settled down in the flat by nine o'clock. The kitchen – apart from Sherlock's ghastly experiments – was cleaned up thanks to the help of Mrs. Hudson. The broken vase, along with he shattered mug had been disposed of, leaving only papers and various books on the ground in the dim light. Sherlock was thinking, playing a vast array of melodies on his violin. Some flowed harmoniously like water in a quiet steam, implicating that his thoughts were calm and collected. Others were more harsh and dark, with deep chords and quick high ones, which gave John the visualization of a storm. Those tones usually meant Sherlock's mind was racing with information, or he was coming quickly to a grand realization. None the less, John enjoyed Sherlock's violin playing and had placed himself in his usual spot with a cup of tea, to listen to the haunting melodies.<p>

The ambiance didn't last very long though, not three minutes later and Sherlock's mobile phone began to ring. The violin playing ceased, and the detective and the doctor looked at one another with curious expressions. The gleam of a smile lined Sherlock's lips as he reached for his phone on the kitchen table.

"Sherlock Holmes."

No one answered right away, but he could hear the sound of Lestrade's shouting and the shouts of another man in retaliation.

"Hello?" he tried again.

"Sherlock. . ."

"Lestrade, is there another victim?" Both John and the inspector detected the excitement in Sherlock's voice, whether he wanted them to or not.

". . .No, NO! put that down. . . oh Jesus. . ."

Sherlock's brows furrowed but he continued to listen to the banter on the other side of the line.

"'_I say. That thing at your ear. What is it?'_ It's a phone. . .now sit still, really how did you get the handcuff off?" there was a pause. "Sherlock I need you to come down to the yard this instant. . . . '_Why do you keep saying my name into that device?' _ . . . .It's not your name. Now go sit . . . no not in my ch- ahh you know what fine. Sit in my bloody chair. Sherlock if you're not here in ten minutes you are off the Hanover case!"

The tall detective didn't have time to initiate any remark before Lestrade hung up and the line went dead.

"What the hell was all that about?" John asked.

"I don't know." Sherlock said shrugging into his long, heavy coat. "But if I'm not at Scotland Yard in ten minutes, Lestrade will do something stupid."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: DUN DUN DUN! xD**


	6. Imposters

**A/N: Okay guys this is it! The long awaited Sherlock/Holmes meeting! This chapter was very difficult for me write. One Sherlock is hard enough to write, two is practically impossible. So I really hope I don't disappoint. Also, Watson will show up, not to worry. ;) And the other reason I'm a little late at posting is because of The Avengers (which is the best movie ever) so blame Marvel… Robert Downey Jr. I love you xD**

**Anyway, here's the long awaited meeting. Hope I did it justice. Enjoy!**

**~Chels**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

Lestrade waited outside his office, with sergeant Donovan and Anderson flanking his sides. The trio stood, watching through the glass as the man that the yard picked up at Baker Street sat in the over-sized desk chair, spinning around, looking inquisitively at everything that was surrounding him.

"Who is he?" Donovan asked, folding her arms and shifting her weight to her left foot.

The DI shook his head. "I dunno. The officer that brought him up said he demanded to see me." Lestrade took in a deep breath. "He keeps calling himself _Sherlock Holmes_."

Donovan made a sour face.

"And he knows you?" Anderson probed.

"Never seen him in my life."

They turned their attention back to Lestrade's office, only to notice the man was no longer sitting behind the desk. Panic struck them all simultaneously, but their fear was cut short by the sound of the man's voice.

"What is this contraption?"

The three police officials turned to see the man at the large copy machine about three yards away. He seemed confused by the machine, like it was something he'd never laid eyes on. The man looked it up and down several times, opening the top and shutting it repeatedly. The smooth glass surface intrigued him, and he studied it for a measureable amount of time before he found all of the buttons. The larger, green 'copy' button caught his eye first, and pressed it immediately, leaving one hand palm down on the glass surface. Soon the machine growled and snarled until a perfect black and white copy of his handprint shot out of the mechanism. This also seemed to surprise the man, who repeated the act three more times before stopping and gazing astoundingly at the copy machine.

It was a strange thing, watching a grown man play with a copy machine like a child, and it left them all wondering if possibly the man suffered from a mental condition. He did seem somewhat disoriented when the officers brought him in, but maybe his confusion was brought on by an unfortunate disease.

"Lestrade!" the man called, pointing at the copier. "What is that contraption? I would say camera, but for it to take a photograph one needs to be touching the glass casing and the light can move across it. And it appears the only photo one could take with the device would be one of a singular body part instead of a whole figure."

The dark haired man shoved the copies of his hand into the inspector's. "It's a copy machine, not a camera," Lestrade explained. "We use it to copy papers and files. Not to take pictures. Seriously mate, have you never heard of a copier?"

Sally let out a muffled chuckle, and in response the stranger shot her a glare. "I believe you and I have not formally introduced ourselves." There was a slightly arrogant and sarcastic tone to his voice.

"Sergeant Sally Donovan," she retorted.

"_Sergeant? _You mean to say that a woman is an official at Scotland Yard? I say, what on earth was the chief inspector thinking? Do tell me that she is the only one."

Almost instantly Sally's face filled with rage. Her dark eyes narrowed and she clenched her teeth. Lestrade could see from her tight fists that one more comment like that and she would spout something off as well as throw punches.

"Perhaps it's best we wait for Sherlock else where," Lestrade said, grabbing the man by his thick dress coat and carting him back into his office.

"Why do you keep saying that? I am here. I am Sherlock!"

"No, you are the man who tried breaking into Sherlock's flat."

"It is my flat."

"No."

"Um. Yes, I do believe it is."

"No it bloody isn't."

The sound of an opening door stopped the two from bickering. Sherlock stood in the doorway, dressed in his attire from earlier that afternoon. His left brow was raised slightly as he pulled his black gloves from his long fingers.

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock." He sighed in relief. "It's about bloody time."

"Yes well I'm here now. What is troubling you Inspector?" Sherlock asked boredly. His eyes landed upon the man whom he deduced was the one he'd heard earlier on the phone, and also the reason Lestrade was in such an irritated state. Both men stared at each other for a long time, mentally evaluating the other with their inquisitive minds and flawless eyesight. The stranger in the odd clothing seemed to be studying the tall man who had just entered the room, while Sherlock did the same with him. Sherlock detected the unmistakable interrogative look underlying his collected composure.

"That," Lestrade answered, pointing to the man in front of him. "He's the bloke who tried to break into your flat."

"Yes, and he also thinks himself me, am I mistaken?" Sherlock said, still eyeing the other man.

"For the last time, I see not why you insist on this infuriating parade of insisting that the man now before us is me. I am Sherlock Holmes the one and only I assure you. As for you Lestrade, you are slightly less plumb and not as annoying, and for that I am grateful." He slammed his fist onto the Detective's desk and glared at both of them. He'd come to accept this strange yet, familiar London that he'd consieved while presumeably under the influence of some kind of halucinigenic drug—and therefore decided to play along. Although at present this man, this imposter who was claiming to be him was rather irritating.

Sherlock's thick brows furrowed, creasing the tight pale skin covering his forehead as he eyed the man who claimed to be him. An abundance of ideas floated around inside of his extraordinary mind—reasons why this man would want to be Sherlock Holmes.

The tall consulting detective removed his thick, blue woven scarf from around his neck and placed it in to his right hand coat pocket, still keeping his icy blue eyes locked onto the imposter. A smirk began to tickle the edges of his soft pink lips as he shrugged out of his long coat, amused by the man's attempt to impersonate the world's only consulting detective.

"I can assume then that you are one of three things that immediately come to mind," Sherlock said swiftly. "One, you've read John's blog, probably obsessively, over and over repeatedly, and now are in the process of trying to fool those around you as well as yourself that you are me—which is something I now and will not ever understand why a person would do such a thing. Second idea, someone has put you up to this as some kind of joke or publicity bit, which I am sorry to inform you in neither humorous nor working. Or option three, which I've already ruled out myself. It's late on a weekend, you could've been at a pub and gotten yourself intoxicated, but you're speech isn't slurred nor do you smell of alcohol; so that leaves the first two options. I suggest sir that you tell us your _real _nameThe stranger stood, glaring narrow eyed at the man with the curly hair and frosty blue eyes. He had to admit that he was impressed with how intricate the tall man's mind worked. The man smiled, letting out a slight chuckle, then stopped abruptly with the serious look back on his face.

"Your intellect astounds me sir, but unfortunately you are very mistaken. Quite good guesses I assure you. Your mind must be above average to simultaneously think of three instances in which I would falsely acquire your name, thus influencing me to ask you the same question—what is _your_ real name?"

Sherlock glared at the man with a fierceness that would've frozen any normal person to the bone. It wasn't often that a person claimed to have a stronger intellect than him, and every time they did, Sherlock proved them wrong. There was something different about this man though, something he'd never dealt with. It wasn't that he couldn't read him, in fact it was much the opposite, but when Sherlock looked at the stranger, he saw himself. A slightly shorter, more muscular, dark eyed, less hygienic version of himself.

"Okay then," Sherlock said. "Who are you Mr. Holmes?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught Lestrade's confused glance in the stranger's direction.

"You have not heard of me?"

"Don't think so," Sherlock sighed.

"Well that's a shame isn't it?"

"Yes, moving on."

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"And what is your occupation?" Sherlock said, placing his palms together at his lips in a praying position.

"Detective. Or Consulting Detective rather. The only one in the world." Mr. Holmes moved around Lestrade's cluttered desk and sat back down in the Inspector's chair, kicking his feet onto the desk. The slightly arrogant tone in his voice implied that he expected both men in the room with him to be impressed—Sherlock was amused.

"And where exactly is your place of residence?" Sherlock pried. "Here in London I presume."

"Yes. Of course. 221 B Baker Street to be precise. Which is where I was picked up after trying to let myself in, and then I was brought here to this strange structure."

"You mean break in," Lestrade corrected.

"No. I was simply letting myself into my flat."

"It's not your flat," Sherlock mumbled practically inaudible. "Do you live there alone?"

"No, I live there with my dear friend, Doctor John Watson."

By this time Lestrade appeared to be suffering from a major headache from the way he was slowly rubbing his temples, and Sherlock was pleased with himself, having outsmarted yet another lunatic.

"Nice try," Sherlock said standing to put on his scarf and gloves. "I applaud you on your devotion to this charade, but your little game is a waste of my time. You're nothing more than a pathetic man looking for attention. And please do find some better clothes and give those back to the theater from which you stole them."

Sherlock gave them both a quick smile and started for the door. The man began shouting, and it wasn't until Lestrade spoke that the tall curly haired detective paid them any attention.

"Come on, let's take you to a holding cell. And this time don't play with the copier."

Sherlock froze, repeated the last part of Lestrade's demand in his head and turned back for one last question.

"Tell me Mr. Holmes. What year is it?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"1886." He replied.

"Interesting." Sherlock paused and looked off into the distance for a long while, somewhere in his thoughts. "I'll take him home with me if you don't mind Lestrade."

"What?" His headache was causing his head to pound and he wasn't sure if he'd heard correctly.

"I want to take that man home with me. I don't expect you to understand."

"Sherlock, I can't just let you take home the man who broke into your flat."

"Sure you can Lestrade, I'm not pressing charges. And after all, he was simply trying to let himself into his home."

Lestrade eyed Sherlock for a long time, but decided it wasn't worth wasting his breath. "Fine, but I warned you not to."

"Duly noted Detective Inspector." Sherlock grabbed Holmes by the coat sleeve and swiftly exited Lestrade's office and shoved the man onto the lift.

"Do you really believe the year is 1886? Or is that just part of you game." Sherlock had him pined to the wall, glaring at him.

"Game?" he looked confused. "No, I'm not playing any games or tricks or what have you. Like I told you before, I was simply letting myself into my flat."

Sherlock released his grip, as far as he could tell the man before him was telling the truth.

"If we are going to be in each other's company for any length of time, since both of us seem to share the exact same name, I will call you by your last name, and you may address me as Sherlock."

"Absolutely not. Have you no sense of propriety? Addressing a man I've just met by his first name is outrageous."

"It's not a matter of what is proper," Sherlock spat. "By address one of us as Sherlock, and the other as Holmes, it would alleviate any confusion. Unless you'd rather me refer to you by or first name?"

The mans pursed his lips. "Very, well. . _. Sherlock_." He hissed the name, like there was venom on his tongue. Sherlock smirked, once again pleased with himself.

The elevator fell silent as it reached the ground floor. Both men stood awkwardly, watching the lights above the door move with every passing floor. Until Holmes finally broke the stillness, asking one of the questions his mind had been gnawing on the entire afternoon.

"If I may ask you, is the year not 1886?"

Sherlock fought a grin. "No."

"Oh." Holmes looked confused, which didn't happen very often. "Then what year is it?"

"It's 2012."

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><p><strong>AN: I love reading your reviews!**


	7. Not So Mundane Mornings

**A/N: Okay, so first off I'll start by apologizing for how long it took me to get this up. I've been pretty busy, and I also had two days where I was just not in a writing mood. Thankfully though I've got this chapter finished, and have already brain stormed for my next one. No promises, but I'm hoping to have the next chapter done soon. I'm loving writing this, and love reading your reviews even more! Keep them up and I'll be sure to answer your reviews. :D**

**Other than the fact that I've been busy, I've also been quite distracted by a handful of things: My friends, my friends graduation, laziness, CSI Miami, writers block, The Avengers (still), Adam Lambert, Jeremy Renner, Loki, and Tom Hiddleston. So there's some things you can blame for the time being. ;P**

**Anyway, enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you thought!**

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><p>Chapter Seven<p>

Darkness encompassed the district of Whitechapel like a cold, wet blanket, sticking firmly to every corner and angle of the large part of London. The only glimmer of any light form in the vast darkness came from the dim streetlights, stationed at even distances to ensure just enough light for those brave enough to face the darkness. The once busy streets sat vacant in the cool night fog, and their emptiness accentuated the loneliness lingering stiffly in the cool night air. As if to serve as a reminder that this desolate part of London was not alone, the bell tower off in the distance chimed its haunting night melodies. The majestic bells, only dwarfed by those of the Notre Dame, echoed their song and alerted the time. All together it was peaceful, with the dark satin sky above glittering with billions of twinkling stars. But amongst this blissful tranquility, an act of violence and deception was under way.

It started with a taxi. From any perspective, nothing appeared out of the ordinary. It was just one vehicle on the lonely road, driven by a nobody, carrying two strangers. The black car signaled a turn and stopped at the curb, allowing the passengers seated in the rear to exit onto the misty street. The first stranger paid the old man with a handful of bills, and both watched the cabbie pull away.

Next, both persons exchanged conversation – a few meaningless passes of dialogue. The first stranger extended a friendly arm forward, allowing the second to walk with them. The whispers continued in a simple chat with a gentle, carefree tone. The pair were insuperable, like close friends that had known each other for most of their lives. But they weren't. In fact, this was the first time they had ever met. They were just two complete strangers, both grabbing the same taxi from two different sides, both in too much of a hurry to the same destination. Coincidence. However, this meeting was not by chance, but instead part of a well-strategized plan, carefully constructed for nothing but a sinister outcome.

What was to happen next would take less than thirty seconds. It would make headlines the next morning, as well as cause more suspicion, and tears; but that was life - confusion and heartache. The two's whispers darkened in tone. No longer did the pair speak in casual banter, but something less inviting masked the first stranger's vocals. Instead, the once carefree tone had metamorphosed into something darker and more menacing. Suddenly the quiet, abandoned streets of Whitechapel were consumed by the horrific cries for mercy from a young woman. With a steady stream of salty tears gushing from her dark eyes like a waterfall, she begged her attacker to spare her. Only her attacker didn't care what the woman had to say, didn't care to listen to the reasoning she had as to why her life should be spared. To the Stranger, the woman begging on her knees had committed a crime, and now the woman must pay for the harm she had caused. With one swift and fatal movement, the girl's cries were ceased forever. Never again would the world hear the young woman's suffering, and never again would the attacker deal with _that_ criminal.

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><p>"<em>Sir?" Watson felt a slight poke on his shoulder, along with a repetitive pounding in his head.<em>

"_Sir." A hand shook him a little harder, causing his eyes to pop open. _

"_Holmes!" Watson glanced around, frantically searching for his friend, only to find a man looming over him who he'd never met before. _

"_No, Officer Livingston. Now please Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to not sleep on this public bench."_

_The doctor slowly sat up, feeling a twinge shoot up his spine from lying so long on the uncomfortable park bench. As he looked around at his surroundings, he realized immediately that something was different. "Am I in London?" He asked the officer. _

_Livingston nodded. "Yes, of course Sir."_

_Watson's eyes wandered over to noises coming from the busy street only yards away through a small grove of trees. He didn't believe the sight that he saw - strange machines._

"_A-are you certain?"_

"_Yes Sir." The officer detected the man's sudden confusion, and instantly offered him his assistance. _

"_Is there something I could help you with Sir? Perhaps call you a taxi?"_

_Watson didn't respond right away, his mind was still slightly groggy and he wasn't sure of what was going on. _

"_Sir?" Officer Livingston sounded even more concerned. _

"_Uh, no. Um. Which way is Baker Street?" he asked due to his mind being still somewhat muddled, and foggy. Some of the buildings and places around him were familiar, but others were hazy. Waiting for the officer to answer, he gazed around the small grove of trees, landlocked in a sea of stone structures. They were taller than he remembered, and some he was certain had not been there before. _

"_That way Sir." The officer pointed him westward, and Watson stood up almost immediately. _

_He smoothed out the wrinkles on his jacket, and dusted off the dirt on his trousers. His cane was lying nearby on the cool green grass, which was near enough at hand. He gathered his hat, tipping it politely in the officer's direction, and started off in the direction he'd been told to go. _

"_Are you sure I can't call a cab for you Sir?" the officer called one final time, feeling the need to help the confused gentleman. _

"_No thank you officer," he answered, wishing he knew what the man meant by 'calling him a cab'. _

_He walked slowly down the street, firstly because his head was still pulsing and secondly, because he suddenly found himself lost within the town he'd always called his home. The world around him was dramatically different, like something out of a science fiction novel. He didn't know whether to be excited or horrified. Seeing all the new sights gave him almost childlike feelings - completely enthralled by the strange unimaginable sights - and yet feeling that sense of dismay, which was just as powerful as the awe and wonderment. _

_Holmes must have slipped him something, which was probably why his head was hurting and he was experiencing such a severe hallucination. Since the detective was nowhere in sight, Watson only hoped that by returning home he could get to the bottom of all he was taking in._

* * *

><p>John was in bed by the time Sherlock and his new friend were back at Baker Street. Sherlock was slightly relieved, deciding that dealing with John's questions and the Holmes character would be better left for later. Besides, Sherlock was anxious to do some research for HanoverNew Ripper case.

"Alright. You'll just have to sleep there," Sherlock said, pointing to the couch. "And I'd like it very much if you didn't speak."

"You're expecting me to stay silent the entire time I am at this residence? Which I must say looks nothing like it did when I left this morning. But if the year is what you say it is, than I suppose that it the alterations are to be expected." Holmes scoffed, wandering over to the skull on the mantelpiece. "What have you done with all of my things?"

"I have never, nor would I ever touch anything that belongs to you. John and I are the only people to live here. That is, apart from the married couple that lived here before the two of us. So I assure you that your possessions have never been here, At least they aren't here anymore." Sherlock removed his coat, gloves and scarf and placed himself in front of his laptop.

"John?" Holmes looked puzzled. "As in John Watson?"

"_Doctor_ John Watson," Sherlock corrected somewhat defensively.

"HA! Now who is imitating the other!" Holmes' eyes narrowed and he spun around rapidly, leaning in close to Sherlock's face. Normally the distance between the two men would be thought as 'uncomfortable' to most, but both Holmes and Sherlock didn't really care about personal space.

The taller detective narrowed his eyes as well. "I assure you that I am imitating no one. Now please. Shut up."

"So you mean to tell me that just by chance, you live at 221B Baker Street. With a man named Dr. John Watson? When I also live at the same address with a companion of the same name right down to the same title?"

"Yes. For the time being both of us are going to have to cope with the undeniable fact that the two of us have a lot more in common than we would ever want, until I can figure out a plausible explanation. No, please refrain from speaking."

Holmes backed off, his expression consumed with utter annoyance with Sherlock's arrogant tone. He'd never met a man with such a bigheaded, pompous attitude. He paraded around, acting as though he knew everything, when Holmes was obviously at the very peak of humanoid intelligence. He'd dealt with one or two so-called geniuses in his days, all of which he'd outwitted with very little effort.

"This shabby piece of furniture is to be my resting place for the night?" Holmes stated sourly, sitting on the worn down cushions.

Sherlock ignored the man's statement, wishing he'd left him at Scotland Yard. And yet, Sherlock's curiosity for the strange individual had won out over the logical decision of leaving him with the police. The man claimed that his name was Sherlock Holmes, and quite an astonishing number of familiarities were developing between the two men. The Holmes character was a bizarre case. He showed no symptoms of a mental disability, nor did he exhibit any traits of a regular substance abuser. For now, this Sherlock Holmes would be an ongoing experiment—although he was sure John would disapprove of the thought, but there was something odd about the man now lying across his sofa.

**XXXXX**

Sunshine seeping in through the slight crack in the curtain woke John the next morning. It was odd to awaken to something as simple as sunlight after living with Sherlock. Most mornings he'd been startled awake by loud bangs or violin music – all of which were Sherlock's doing. But for once in a long time, he'd woken up because he was well rested and didn't seem to be in any immediate danger.

He rolled over on his back, stretching out his stiff body and pushed himself off of his bed. He took his dressing gown off of the hook on the back of his door, and started down the stairs and into the kitchen. The doctor took the kettle from the cabinet over the oven and filled it with water from the sink. It wasn't until he poured his tea and made his way into the living room that he realized why it was so quiet.

Sherlock, dressed in his pajamas and blue silk dressing gown, was sitting at the far end of the sofa –closest to the windows- glaring at a man whom John had never seen before, sitting opposite Sherlock. Neither the stranger nor the detective moved when John entered the room, both of them sat transfixed with the other. By the look on Sherlock's face, he was deducing the man. Sherlock's icy blue eyes darted back and forth and up and down, piercing into the man's very soul.

"W-who's this?" John asked after a few minutes.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock stated flatly, not moving and inch.

John's brows furrowed, and he glanced back and forth at the two men on the couch. "What?"

"Dr. John Watson I presume," the other man stated, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock.

"Who are you?" John asked. "Sherlock?" he looked to his flat mate, longing for an answer.

"As I previously stated, his name is Sherlock Holmes. I recognize the obvious bewilderment. I'm still trying to analyze the situation. . ."

"As am I," the other Sherlock stated. "I find myself stuck in a scenario I've never encountered before, and am too trying to conjure a logical explanation."

John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head a few times, only to realize that he wasn't seeing things. There really was a strange man sitting on their sofa, locked in an intense eye battle with his flat mate. The confused doctor sat in his usual chair, and placed his cup of tea to the side. He took several deep breaths and rubbed his forehead.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said. "That's your real name?"

Holmes rolled his eyes, finally breaking the gaze the pair had kept up all morning. "Yes! That is my real name. Could you please stop this name nonsense!"

"But then- how- Why is he here Sherlock?" So much for the _normal_ morning, John thought.

"This is also the man that attempted to break into our flat yesterday afternoon and also the reason behind Lestrade's strange call last night," Sherlock explained, finally looking to the disordered doctor.

"So you brought him back to our flat. The man who tried to rob us," John stated, mildly dumbfounded. "Seriously, Sherlock. Why would you do something like that?"

"I assure you," Holmes stated. "I have no interest in stealing anything, at least not at the moment."

"Oh," John scoffed sarcastically. "Not at the moment. Very reassuring."

"John," Sherlock said calmly.

"He can't stay here Sherlock," John warned.

"John."

"I won't allow it Sherlock."

"John." The detective sounded slightly annoyed now.

"What?"

"He thinks he lives here."

John opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. "What do you mean?"

"Mr. Holmes believes that he lives at this exact address, with his own friend who shares your name and title. I've spent the better half of the morning trying to deduce the manner in which he believes such a thing, and unfortunately have yet to find anything of use." By the end of his explanation, Sherlock sounded agitated. He always hated it when he couldn't figure something out, and John was the only person who he would ever admit it to. "The only piece of information that is making sense is that Mr. Holmes is from a different era, 1800s apparently." It sounded as though Sherlock himself didn't believe it.

John just sat in his chair, glancing at Sherlock, and Mr. Holmes, then off into space. Did he really expect to wake up to an even mildly normal morning? It sure wasn't every day the man you live with brings home a criminal who thinks he is your flat mate—then again, everyday occurrences never happened at 221B.


	8. Bickering

**A/N: Okay after so much drama i finally got this posted! My computer crashed, then got a virus, then there was email confusion between my Beta and i all while i was on vacation with limited access to the internet. Now i'm hopping that the next chapter goes smoothly. lol. Anyway let me know what you thought! And in case you didn't notice I went back and named the chapters, haven't thought of one for this one yet. . .still thinking about it. **

**P.S Have any of you seen the Avengers more than 4 times? just curious )**

**ENJOY!**

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><p><strong>Chap<strong>**ter 8**

"Who phoned it in?" Lestrade asked Sergeant Donovan as he got out of the cop car. It was just after sunrise and Scotland Yyard was already in full swing

"Uh, woman across the street," she replied, pointing as she led her superior to the bloodstained scene.

"Any relation to the victim?"

"No, she claimed to have never seen her before. Came out to get the post and found her."

Both the Detective Inspector and the sergeant stopped and stood over the mutilated body of a young woman. Her gnarled figured lay flat on her back in a dark pigmented pool of her own blood, with an expression marking her pale face of with fright.

"Jesus Christ,." Lestrade sighed, with the shake of his head. Although the scene wasn't quite as grotesque as the last murder, this one had to be amongst the top ten. Once again, her lower abdomen was sliced open revealing spots with missing organs, and her throat was slit much the same as Nani Hanover's had been. "Do we have an ID on her?"

"Bethany Williams," Anderson said, walking up to join Lestrade and Donovan, "27. Worked at a travel agency downtown according to what we found in her purse."

The Detective Inspector circled the body once more, looking closely at every detail he could wrap his average mind around. He knew that he would never take from the scene what Sherlock could in seconds, but he always tried.

"Is she one of the New Ripper victims?" Sergeant Donovan asked.

"Is that what they're calling 'em?" Lestrade inquired lightly before answering her question. "It's hard to tell. Probably is. . . " The Inspector pulled his mobile from his coat pocket and began dialing.

"You're not calling _him_ are you?" Donovan probed, already sounding peeved. She folded her arms at her chest and shifted her weight to one side, glaring down the DI.

"Of course I'm calling him," Lestrade retorted childishly. "I already agreed to let him work this case."

Anderson frowned, creating even more wrinkles in his skin than usual. "You let him leave with that freak last night; I thought that was to keep him occupied so he'd keep his bloody nose out of police cases."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed, as he waited for Sherlock to answer his phone. It was unusual for the Detective to let his phone ring so long, especially if he knew the call was about a homicide.

"You two bugger off," Lestrade said, feeling both Donovan and Anderson's disapproving glare on his back, as he was waiting. "Sherlock is coming whether you like it or not."

* * *

><p>"I don't understand," John huffed, sitting across from Sherlock at the desk. "How can someone from 1886 come into the future?"<p>

The detective had his nose stuck in the big leather book again, rebooting his memories on the Ripper cases. It was obvious to John that Sherlock was not in a talking mood - he'd spent the last hour and a half arguing with Holmes about the violin. Despite the fact that most of the squabble took place in their heads, apart for a few words - some of them part of a more colorful vocabulary - John had deduced the situation enough to know that the disagreement came to a stale mate, and Holmes had gotten his hands on Sherlock's violin without permission. That in turn had made Sherlock's current attitude less than enjoyable. He hadn't said a word since the row and had quarantined himself with his casebook and his third cup of tea, regardless of the ear piercing cry coming for his violin strings.

Holmes sat with Sherlock's violin under his chin and he absentmindedly dragged the bow back and forth creating a sound similar to the yelp of an alley cat. The noise sent chills down John's spine and was beginning to give him a headache.

"You're seriously going to just let him do that?" John stated, seeing if he could get his researching flat mate to retort in anyway.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but his icy eyes peered over the thick binding of the book like poison soaked daggers, watching the man out of time play rotten notes on his beloved violin.

Holmes was sprawled out across the sofa, staring wide eyed out the window, still drawing the bow back and forth over the white strings. He alone seemed immune to the sour sounding notes, and continued playing as if he was Mozart himself.

John twisted his torso to watch the strange man, and noticed how very similar Sherlock and Holmes were. He really was Sherlock's equal from another era. Their mannerisms were both the same, and they both could deduce scenarios in ways that were close to super-human abilities. There were small things too like how when they were both lost in their own thoughts, they stared blackly at the wall or out the window without moving or blinking. Probably the most annoying one John had discovered was both of them were so damn pig headed and arrogant.

Holmes hit an extremely ear splitting note which made John cringe and Sherlock practically snarl. However Holmes continued his tune until Sherlock stood from his chair.

"Let me have the violin," he demanded. "Mr. Holmes." Sherlock's tone was more sinister upon receiving no reply.

The noise abruptly ended, and Holmes got to his feet. He was quite a bit shorter than Sherlock, but nowhere near as short as John. However, for what Holmes lacked in height he held in muscle. Sherlock always looked malnourished, whereas Holmes stature looked either average or slightly above.

"Why?" Holmes quipped. "I was playing."

"Is that what you call what you were doing?" Sherlock snapped.

Holmes's eyes narrowed but he remained silent.

Sherlock inclined his palm and probed again. "Give me my violin." He paused, annoyance twinkling in his eyes. ". . .Please."

John's brows furrowed. He wasn't used to hearing that word flow from his flat mate's mouth. The doctor looked to his friend, confused, watching Sherlock's expression. His lips were a firm line, determined to get his violin back, and his piercing, cold eyes bore into the man by the couch.

Holmes narrowed eyes lit up, with the hint of a maddened smirk on his lips. He pompously strutted around the coffee table, handing off the violin absentmindedly. "I was tired of that anyway," he mused, walking towards the open case book on the table, twirling the bow in between his fingers – having kept it. ". . .I am much more interested in this."

The scruffy detective sat in Sherlock's chair and studied the large casebook now in front of him. His dirty fingers flipped the thick, yellowed pages, and his dark eyes darted across each page as he read. He continued to spin the bow with his right hand absently. He jumped ever so slightly, shifting his weight as he read.

Annoyed by the man's actions - and the fact he still hadn't surrendered the bow, Sherlock gently placed his violin back in its usual spot on the cluttered shelf by the window. Once he'd made sure that the stranger hadn't harmed his beloved instrument, he began to reach for the old casebook but was stopped by the tip of his violin bow being thrust into the center of his abdomen lightly.

"Nope . . ." Holmes sighed, keeping the tall detective out of reach of the book. ". . . Not finished yet."

Slightly baffled, Sherlock gave John a 'Who-the-hell-does-he-think-he-is' look. John – who had been watching the entire scene take place from his spot in front of his laptop, looked amused by the stranger's ability to genuinely irk his flat mate.

Holmes finished the last page and looked up at Sherlock with almost a childlike disposition. "Interesting," he thought, pushing Sherlock back a couple steps by the force of the violin bow as he got up.

"What is?" John asked, feeling as though once again he'd missed something.

"This so called 'Jack the Ripper' person? Numerous brutal killings strung out all in London – mainly in the Whitechapel district- and I wasn't involved in the apprehending of the fiend? How odd. One would think that on a case as brilliantly chaotic as the one inscribed in that book, that I would've been able to deduce the manner of who was slashing those poor girls much quicker. Thus saving many from such inhumane slaughters. . ."

His voice trailed off, and he seemed genuinely displeased by the fact he wasn't part of the original Ripper investigation.

"They never actually caught the killer did they?" John asked, fairly certain he already knew the answer, he just didn't want to be wrong while in the presence of two egotistical know-it-alls.

"No unfortunately," Sherlock sighed heavily, sounding both angry and bored.

Holmes spun the bow a few more times, then frowned. "For some reason that does not surprise me. How Scotland Yard managed to solve any case is beyond me." He sighed to himself and moved to place himself in John's chair.

"You said you are from the year 1886?" John said.

"Yes and the Ripper's victims didn't actually take place until '88." Sherlock stated dryly sitting back down – his mood still less than pleasant. "You've got two years of waiting I'm afraid," he added without the slightest hint of actual sympathy.

"Well that explains why I haven't been called to investigate;, it hasn't happened yet. I'll be on the look out for them though, to einsure the capture of the ruthless murder." He scoffed locking his eyes out the windows. His random trance lasted only a few minutes before he rejoined the other two. "Why are 124 year old serial killings relevant to you now?" He paused only long enough for Sherlock to open his mouth for a reply but Holmes began deducing his own question before Sherlock could reply.

"I would assume Lestrade has discovered something similar, hasn't he? A victim done up so magnificently ghastly that he's found himself stuck yet again. And now he's called upon you – the future me apparently - to help him solve it. Hoping that this time aroundon this particular occasion an actual criminal is brought to justice instead of the murders fading way like the first time. Am I correct?"

John blinked a few times, staring at the man in awe. He'd never come across someone who could match Sherlock's excellent deductive skills like this Holmes character could. And possibly the best part of the whole thing was how much it seemed to piss off Sherlock. His flat mate had always prided himself on the fact that he was the 'only consulting detective in the world' and that no one else possessed the same abilities that he did. If John wanted to get technical about it, Sherlock was the only one he knew from this century that had the astounding abilities to do such things. Holmes was from the 1800s and therefore shouldn't even exist in the present day, along with the modern version of himself.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, annoyed. "Everything that you just spewed from your mouth was correct."

Holmes grinned proudly. "Well then, that's settled. Now we can move on with this curious gadget." The scruffy detective pulled Sherlock's mobile phone from his trouser pocket and flipped it in his free hand, catching it in his palm. "I have yet to deduce what this contraption is used for. I've stumbled upon many. I'm guessing it is of use to people in this century. It has numerical buttons, and it seems to speak on its own. And at random intervals it buzzes as if a swarm of honey bees live inside of it. . ."

Both John and Sherlock looked at Holmes in shock. "Did he pickpocket you?" John asked in awe.

The expression on Sherlock's sharply contoured face was a mixture of annoyance, surprise, and admiration. He couldn't help but be mildly impressed by the stranger's ability to pickpocket him, but that wasn't enough to mask the growing amount of frustration boiling up inside him.

"Obviously," Sherlock retorted aggressively.

In one swift movement, Sherlock jumped out of his chair and snatched his phone from the other detective's hand. Holmes scowled "Wh-"

"Shut up!" Sherlock barked as he sat down, scanning through his missed calls and various texts.

"Lestrade's called three times!" he scolded.

"I was simply trying to deduce what the device was," Holmes stated coolly.

"I don't care what you were trying to do," Sherlock huffed. "Do not touch my belongings."

John wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Sherlock so worked up before. Although he'd acted similarly when they'd played Cluedo the first time - with all the screaming and shouting.

"Call Lestrade," John told his flat mate, attempting to calm him. "No doubt the bloke is still confused."

Sherlock mumbled to himself some more, spewing out a very colorful array of verbal obscenities, and dialed the Inspector's number as he paced furiously back and forth across the room.

"Might I inquire as to what that device does precisely?" Holmes suddenly spoke.

It took John a moment to realize the question was for him. "I'm sorry, what?"

Holmes stood, violin bow still in hand, and placed himself behind the chair John was setting in. He looked down at the laptop with inquisitive eyes, marveling at it. "Tell me, does everything in this century come with numerical and alphabetical buttons?"

John laughed. "It sure seems like it. This is a laptop computer," he explained. "You can write digital documents and send them to other people's laptops or computers. Most people use them though to surf the internet."

"Internet?"

"Yes, um. . ." the doctor wasn't sure how to describe it. "The internet is made up of um. . . I'm not sure actually."

Holmes frowned, annoyed by the man's lack of knowledgeable information. "Well. That is very informative. . ._John._" the name felt wrong coming from his mouth. "Perhaps while I'm here, I can find an expert on this _internet _-"

"I'm afraid that will not be possible Mr. Holmes as you are not to leave this flat while you are here. Doing so might alter history in some catastrophic manner and thus send the universe into a downward spiral," Sherlock instructed, (yep! ) ending his call with Lestrade. "John, you and I however are needed in Whitechapel.

Without hesitation, John got up and folded himself into his dark jacket, while Sherlock stripped from his dressing gown and disappeared to his room in order to change. He returned shortly, donning his usual dress, including his long coat and scarf.

"Confining me here?" Holmes probed loudly. "Alone?"

"Mrs. Hudson is downstairs," Sherlock smirked and Holmes sneered. "Don't touch anything while John and I are away."

"So I'm supposed to stay on the couch?" Holmes inquired

"Yes. Don't even try to move, because I will know if you did. . ." Sherlock smirked again, amused by Holmes resentment. ". . .Trust me."


	9. It was the tea

**A/N: Hello! Here is chapter nine! I am brain storming possible titles as I set here and type this. . .I'll admit that this time the delay was both my laziness and the fact that for a while I wasn't sure where this was going! You guys that keep sending in awesome reviews and all the alerts and what not, are what keep me going! I feed off of that stuff lol. I hope I can keep on living up to the high expectations that you guys deserve. . .my classes start in a couple weeks, but luckily I'm not taking any more than I have to unlike last semester. **

**Any way let me know what you guys thought! Gonna go see the new Bourne movie with Jeremy Renner in it tomorrow, and if you've seen my profile on here you know I love him to the point it's an obsession ;)**

**ENJOY!**

**Chels**

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

"Do you think it was a good idea leaving him at the flat?" John asked warily, following Sherlock out of the cab that had brought them where Lestrade had instructed. ". . ._alone?"_

"Would you rather he had come with us?" Sherlock proposed.

John thought a moment and decided, as always, Sherlock was right. ". . . No."

The detective arrogantly smirked at his flatmate's hesitation. The pair stopped once they reached the yellow caution tape. Sherlock lifted the thin plastic, ushering John under first, then ducked under it himself. Donovan stood probed against the hood of one of the flashing emergency vehicles, arms folded, scowling feverishly, while Anderson made his point by avoiding Sherlock and John entirely. Lestrade though greeted the duo anxiously.

"Didn't think I'd ever get ahold of ya," he stated, sticking his hands in his coat pockets as he approached the Detective and the Doctor.

"Problems at Baker Street," Sherlock said lifelessly, turning up the collar of his long coat.

"Problems?"

"More like _a _problem," John explained, "and I'm afraid we left it unresolved."

Sherlock and John shared a quick glance, leaving the Detective Inspector in the dark.

"I presume you've got something, or _someone_ rather to show me?" Sherlock probed, changing the subject.

"Ah, yes," he answered, turning to lead the pair to the victim. "Her name is Bethany Williams."

"Occupation?"

"She worked at a travel agency in Soho."

They came across the body shortly, and much like the last one, the girl's lower abdomen was the most horrific. The dried blood on the pavement left a hideous stain around the body.

"I think we may be dealing with a serial killer," Lestrade stated.

"Obviously."

Sherlock knelt next to the body, removing his black leather gloves, then held out an empty, pale palm without saying a word.

Confused, Lestrade looked to John who rolled his eyes. The doctor silently walked over to the forensics table, snatching a pair of latex gloves and dropped them into the detective's hands. With his gloves secured, Sherlock moved around the girl's body, around the scene, analyzing every tiny detail his able eyes fell on. John and Lestrade waited close by, watching Sherlock work at his fast pace, both wondering how the detective's mind worked.

"Well," Sherlock sighed, pulling the left glove from his hand.

"What did you get?" Lestrade practically begged.

"More than your lot no doubt," Sherlock mused.

John pursed his lips and the Inspector ignored the discourteous statement.

"Sherlock. . ." John sighed, cajoling his flatmate to shed light on what he had seen.

With a slight hesitation and a roll of his eyes, Sherlock began to illustrate the full scene. "The killer brought her here in a cab. There was no sign of a struggle; the murderer hesitated. Judging by the state of our victim's knees, they suggest that she begged before she was killed. . ."

"Why is that important?" the detective asked, folding his arms, "that doesn't tell us-"

"Oh no inspector, in fact that might tell us quite a lot. You see there are two main types of serial killers - the ones acclimatized to violence and suffer major mental instability, who don't hesitate and simply finish their work and move on. Then there are the ones who's first act is a crime of passion, which in turn can drive them to a second and then a third and so on. I wager that our killer is the latter."

"What makes you think so?" Lestrade asked, his eyebrows pulled together confused.

"Our last victim, Ms Hanover knew our murderer, although I've been occupied by other circumstances since, and I haven't been able to fully investigate Ms. Hanover's dealings. But I am certain that she was killed for a far more entertaining reason than just mental instability. Now, as to why Ms Williams suddenly fell victim raises even more questions. Given the fact that our killer hesitated before killing her, like I said, that suggests that we are dealing with someone with slightly more morals than our usual murderers."

"So basically you're saying that the first murder was supposed to be the only one, but instead the killer just. . ._snapped?" _John was skeptical.

"Precisely."

"So what do we look for then?" Lestrade asked, scratching the back of his head.

"We already know our suspect is right handed, and removes certain organs - same as last time if I'm not mistaken."

Sherlock looked to John knowingly, and the doctor answered by stepping forward to investigate. Stone faced, John knelt beside the corpse, looking closely at the large gash in the woman's abdomen. John sighed. He had seen more than his fair share of carnage in war but this was all together a different breed of killing. "Yeah," he finally said. "Same as last time."

"Mmm." Sherlock steepled his hands together at his lips. "Did Ms. Williams know our last victim?" he asked the Detective Inspector. He stood and removed his phone from his coat pocket, and began scrolling through something while he waited.

"Not that we have found, do you think so?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Doubt it."

"There has to be some sort of connection," John tested. "Something that connects the murders."

"The only true connection between victims in a case such as this is the murderer himself. " He paused shortly, looking at his phone once again before he spoke. "John, you and I are going downtown."

The doctor's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"There's someone I need to see." Sherlock placed his phone back into his pocket and began to walk away.

"You can't leave yet," Lestrade protested. "You haven't finished!"

"On the contrary, Inspector. I've taken everything I can from this scene, and unfortunately not quite enough to catch our killer just yet. I need to further my research. Come along, John."

John gave the inspector an apologetic glance, then fell instep behind the tall detective.

* * *

><p>Despite Sherlock's commands, Holmes wasn't about to let this bizarre reincarnation of his flat go without a thorough inspection. It had taken him only ten to fifteen minutes to correctly log every book on the wide shelves within the endless depths of his cerebral perspicacity, and had moved onto the stacks of case files, grossly piled into cardboard boxes under the widow. At this he found himself impressed by the arrogant man who went by the same name. It seemed as though, perhaps, he did possess similar abilities, which he also used to solve police work. He didn't as quickly document each file like he had done almost so carelessly with the books, he was more systematic while studying the various cases as if he himself was working on the very case.<p>

They had all been given titles, titles of which Holmes was not particularly keen on. "A Study in Pink?" he sneered as he looked threw the file. "Pills? How clever." He smirked, tossed it aside and looked at the next one. "The Blind Banker?" He rolled his eyes at yet another title but read the details anyway. Once he'd satisfied himself with the old papers he moved into the kitchen. This was a scientific wonderland. He recognized a few tools - although they had become more advanced since he last remembered. There were a large number of opened chemical bottles, tubes of what appeared to be blood, jars of viscous materials and a large quantity of petri dishes full of fungi.

Enthralled with the substances lining the counter tops and the top of the table, it wasn't until a slight humming sound came from the large metal box that it grabbed Holmes's attention. He stared at the machine for a second or two, his head cocked to one side. His forehead creased and his dark eyes narrowed at the strange mechanism. There was much about this era that intrigued him; the rather large camera at Scotland Yard- _a copier_, the small device that people spoke into - _mobile phone_, and the glowing book - the l_aptop computer. _

Without any more hesitation, he reached for what he could tell was a handle, a small metal bar located parallel to the left side of the machine. He tugged on it ever so slightly, until the front exterior came apart, flooding a small area with light and a slight chill.

"An ice box!" Holmes smiled to himself, feeling a joy rush through him as he came upon an advancement in technology that he could correctly identify. "Extraordinary."

He pulled the door open wider, taking a few small steps forward, allowing the door to prop against his shoulder, while his head was practically inside the medium sized refrigerator. His eyes scanned from side to side, reading the labels on what was sure to be more experimental materials, while some he deduced were just out dated food.

"Out of food again, boys?"

Holmes jumped, startled by the sudden female voice. He quickly removed his head from the fridge, and stood up straight, eyeing the small elderly woman who had just entered.

"Oh," she said, realizing the man at the fridge was neither John nor Sherlock. Her thin brows furrowed and then she spoke. "I know who you are. You're the one who tried breaking into the flat yesterday!"

"Ah, I was not breaking in," Holmes defended himself quickly. "I was unaware that someone_ else_ was living here."

"Yes well, then that is a very good reason for you not to be here." Mrs. Hudson pulled the man away from the refrigerator.

"I was informed not to leave this place of residence," Holmes told the woman. "I see no harm in exploring the space while I am imprisoned."

"Imprisoned?" Mrs. Hudson slightly laughed. "Sherlock's told you not to leave, is that it?"

Holmes clenched his teeth as pursed his lips. "You are correct madam," he hissed.

The detective ambled out of the small kitchen and back into the living space. Mrs. Hudson followed warily, still unsure about her tenant's bizarre house guest.

"You're Mrs. Hudson I presume?" Holmes asked, reaching for the violin and bow.

"Yes." She paused and reached a hand out, as if to halt the man from grabbing the instrument. "I don't think Sherlock would like it very much if you did that."

"What?" Holmes spun around on his heel as he drug the bow across the strings, sending a deep menacing note echoing in the small flat. "I am but practicing my talent, Nanny. Of course what would you know of talent, tis a pity you have none. . ."

Mrs. Hudson's jaw dropped, "I will not have that." She stated rather calmly. "You may be Sherlock's guest, but I will not tolerate it from you

Holmes continued to prance around the flat, playing Sherlock's violin as if it was his own, circling the poor landlady as if to mock and tease her-paying no attention to her wishes.

"I thought I heard your God awful playing from down the street," came the sound of a familiar voice.

Standing, propped against the door frame of the entrance was Watson, sporting his usual sardonic smirk.

"Watson!" Holmes rushed over to greet his friend. "My dear, dear Watson. I was so very worried. Where in god's name have you been all this time?"

"You were worried?" he probed. "I woke up on a bench, in the middle of a park, with you not around, and suffering from what has to be the worst hallucination you've ever put me through!"

"Not a hallucination," Holmes corrected.

"Not a hallucination?"

"That is what I said, yes. Very good Watson."

"Um, pardon me," Mrs Hudson finally spoke, after watching the two strangers bicker. "Who are you two?" She pointed to Holmes. "I met him last night, but I didn't catch your name."

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Now please . . .go away," the detective jeered.

"I'm sorry, what?" The landlady looked at both of them confused.

"You heard me woman, now out!"

Holmes scooted the old woman out into the hall, pushing his friend inside and closed the door behind him.

"That was uncalled for," Watson rebuked.

"I already asked her to leave once." He paused to play more sour notes on the violin. "I just helped her out a little more quickly."

Watson rolled his eyes, and removed his hat and tossed it onto the coffee table, taking a seat on the worn down sofa.

"Okay Holmes, as your friend I'm entitled to some sort of explanation, even if it is an unpredictable one."

Holmes smirked. "As I was saying, what you experienced in the park was not the effects of a hallucination, however that was my first suspicion, which I have ruled out entirely. . ."

"So what is going on?"

"Watson, I believe the two of us are the first pioneers in time travel. Now before you dismiss my observations, take what you have seen into perspective. The future is the only logical answer."

The doctor was quiet for a long time, the wheels in his head turning. He'd always thought of himself as a practical man, that was until he'd met Sherlock Holmes. Then practicality had been thrown out the window. Watson had never given much thought about the future; instead, he kept himself planted in the present. He couldn't doubt all that he had seen however, and a large part of him could never doubt his friend. As he sat, tuning out the dreadful violin, he racked his brain trying to think of how the two of them could've possibly been brought to the future. The pair hadn't gone to some laboratory and stumbled upon a machine that could do such things, time traveling had always been impossible. It wasn't until he remembered the young gypsy girl and her small dwelling he and Holmes had been in before the doctor had blacked out that it dawned on him. Suddenly he knew.

Holmes, who'd been completely oblivious to the doctor for the past five to ten minutes, stopped playing upon seeing the look on his face. "What is it?" he asked.

"It was the tea."

* * *

><p><strong>AN . . .now do you see where this is going? lol don't forget to leave me a review and check out to poll on my profile page! **

**THANKS**

**Chels**


	10. Clues

**A/N: So I wrote you guys almost a 3000 word chapter! :D I figured I owed it to you all since you've been leaving me awesome reviews and alerts and I'm just overwhelmed by how much you are all enjoying this! I would have updated yesterday, it was my birthday and I was busy with friends and family. . . .anyway. . . . I hope I can keep you hooked and that you will review this, and more chapters! I look forward to them, and I'll do my best to answer your reviews/questions. **

**Thank you so much! ENJOY!**

* * *

><p>Chapter Ten<p>

"Bethany's dead?" the young woman gasped, shocked to learn of her coworker's unexpected passing. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," the tall detective sighed emotionlessly. "Quite sure."

The woman sank into her medium sized desk chair, a slight hint of tears lining her chocolate colored eyes. "W-what happened?"

"She was murdered." Sherlock's unsympathetic tone seemed to unease the woman, causing her eyes to swell with more tears. John, noticing the woman's grief, nudged his flat mate in the side sharply. He sent a confused scowl the doctor's way, before realizing why he'd been jabbed.

"Um. . ." Sherlock hesitated, stealing a look back at John.

"What he's trying to say is we're sorry for your loss, but we could really use your help in finding her killer," John retorted.

The woman nodded, taking a tissue from the box on her desk, and wiped her eyes and her nose. "Yes, of course." She sniffed. "Anything."

"Were you and Ms Williams close?" John said, before Sherlock could ask a rude question.

She nodded again. "Yes. We both started at the same time, and we've been friends ever since."

"How long have you worked here?" Sherlock pried, his icy blue eyes piercing.

He could tell she was intimidated by him from the way she cowered and looked to John every time he spoke to her.

"Uh. . . four years."

"And that's her desk there," he pointed to an area about five yards way. "Yes?"

She nodded again, as Sherlock quickly dashed over to the tidy work area. John however wasn't as quick to follow his flat mate, stopping to apologize for Sherlock's behavior like he usually had to.

Sherlock rooted around in the draws and the neatly stacked papers, John stood on hand, watching in dull amazement as the detective took pleasure in soiling the poor girl's desk. "You know, it's a bloody good thing she's dead." Sherlock moved papers aside, careful not to wrinkle or drop any.

"And why do you say something like that?" Sherlock scoffed, scanning over a document he removed from a file.

"Because I sure as hell would be pissed to come to work in the morning and find all of my work moved and stacked differently." John paused, waiting for a reply. "What are you even looking for, Sherlock?"

"Oh nothing specific, however this might be something."

Sherlock held up a rather expensive looking engagement ring.

"Is that-?"

The detective raced back to the woman silently sobbing at her desk.

"Did this belong to the victim?"

Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the sparkling silver jewelry piece. "Bethany was engaged, but that, uh, that wasn't the ring Matthew gave her."

"Matthew. . ." Sherlock dragged out the name, as he thought.

"Her fiancé?" John asked.

"Yes, he proposed to her about four months ago. Matt didn't have enough money to give her an actual engagement ring at the time."

Sherlock held the ring between his thumb and index finger, intensely staring at the piece. "Where can I find Matthew?" he asked, never taking his eyes from his the ring.

The woman stood up, and walked over to Bethany's old desk, searching amongst the shifted clutter for something. When she returned she handed John a small piece of thick paper.

"He lives in the flat they saved up to buy last year. Her address is listed there on the card." She pointed.

Sherlock put the ring in his pocket, and quickly headed out the door, already hailing a taxi.

"Thank you so much," John said, struggling not to trip over his feet in the rush for the door.

"Anything to help." She sniffed as Sherlock slid into a black taxi, barely allowing John inside as well.

**XXXXXX**

The taxi stopped outside a rather plain brick building. It wasn't much to look at; weathered red brick, rusted iron railing lining the few steps to the old door. Greenery peeked out of the cracks where the structure met the side walk. The dreary weather did nothing to improve the structure's character, but rather made it even worse to look at.

John looked down at the small card the woman at the travel agency had given him to confirm the right address. He bit his lip and his brows furrowed as he looked back at the building.

"This is it," he said, as if to convince himself.

"Obviously."

Sherlock reached the front door in three long strides and knocked. John came up beside him, placing the piece of paper into his jacket pocket.

"I- I don't really feel like visitors this afternoon," said a man's sobbing voice on the other side of the door. "Sorry."

"I'm afraid you have no choice but to let us in. And judging by your sobs the police have already informed you of your fiancé's murder," Sherlock said dully.

"Sherlock. . ." John warned.

Matthew attempted to make his expression menacing, but the effort was futile. "Pssh. I don't have to talk to you."

"For all we know, this deranged killer could come after you next," Sherlock stated. "And the information you give us could very well break the case."

"W-what do you want?" the man whimpered, quickly giving in.

"We were hoping you could answer some questions for us," John explained.

The young man opened the door only a crack, enough to showcase his grief stricken features. His cool hazel eyes were swollen and red. Dried tears lined his stubble coated cheeks. John instantly felt sorry for him.

"We're sorry to bother you, but maybe some of your insight will be greatly appreciated. . ."

The man's eyes dropped to the floor solemnly.

"Your name is Matthew, yes?" Sherlock inquired.

He nodded.

Sherlock paused. "Well Matthew, perhaps you should let us in so we can get this over with."

John ground his teeth. Sherlock was the smartest man he'd ever known and yet his lack of compassion and people skills almost dwarfed his genius.

Matthew opened the door to allow the detective and the doctor inside, and led them into a small living area. What the building lacked on the outside was made up for by the inside. Dozens of pictures hung artistically on the brightly painted walls. John couldn't help but to stop and marvel at some of the photographs.

"Photographer?" Sherlock queried.

"Mmhmm."

"You took all of these yourself?" John asked, trying to perhaps lighten the mood. Matthew nodded.

"They're very good." John added, hoping to coax Matthew out of his grief. John didn't like seeing the sadness in the man's eyes and he wanted nothing more than to console him.

The trio sat down, John and Sherlock on the sofa, and Matthew placed himself in an armchair.

"So are you guys some sort of investigators?"

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, Consulting detective."

The man's eyebrows pulled together with confusion, but he quickly dismissed it.

"And this is Dr. John Watson," Sherlock added, motioning towards his flat mate beside him.

Matthew nodded. "So, who killed Bethany?" A look of ample sorrow washed over his features when he said her name.

"I think I'll start with the questions," Sherlock said. "First of all, I'm aware you and Bethany planned on making your partnership permanent."

"Yes. I asked her to marry me about four months ago on her birthday. I didn't have money at the time to afford a ring, with school and bills and everything. She said she understood, and that the ring didn't matter as long as we were together."

Sherlock removed a small plastic bag from his coat pocket – inside was the engagement ring he'd found earlier. He handed the small parcel to his doctor friend, silently ordering him to hand it to Matthew. John gave the clear bag a brief glance wondering where the detective and gotten it, but decided it wasn't the most pressing matter at the moment.

"I found this among her things at work," the detective said.

"Perhaps you know where it came from," John finished.

"I've never seen this before. Are you sure she had it?" Matt looked astonished, holding the bag flat in his horizontal palm.

"Yes. Is there any information you could enlighten us with, as to why someone would kill her, why she would have such an expensive item – clearly you didn't buy it for her, you can barely afford this flat."

"Sherlock. . ." John hissed

Matthew's shaking fingers slid across the smooth outline of the metal and gemstone as he looked at it. "No one would've wanted to kill her," he murmured finally. "She made friends so easily. Nothing ever got to her. She was so easy going and happy all the time. Even with that boss of hers."

"What do you know about him?" Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers at his lips.

"Her boss?" Matthew shrugged. "She would talk about things he did to her and the girl she worked with. I guess he's had a couple of female employees quit because of the harassment and comments."

Sherlock's eyes glazed over like they always did when he was in deep thought. He didn't utter a sound, or move for quite some time, making everyone but himself feel uncomfortable.

"Interesting," he finally whispered. "This case just keeps getting better and better."

He stood up in a rush and once again made his way to the exit without expressing a goodbye or a thank you. Matthew stood, muddled by the sudden excitement as did John, who upon realizing his flat mate didn't plan on returning, said his farewells and again, apologized for his colleague's behavior.

"Sherlock, you and I need to work on your people skills once this case is solved," John scolded as he got into the taxi behind Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Holmes didn't say anything right away. Instead he stood in the center of the living room, violin in one hand, bow in the other, staring wide-eyed at his dearest friend. The tea? <em>The tea? <em>Was the solution to their big mystery something as ordinary as a cup of some gypsy's tea?

"I say, Watson. However did you think of such an explanation before me?" The detective was genuinely surprised at his doctor friend's capability to solve such a puzzle.

"I'm surprised that wasn't the first thing you thought of," Watson laughed. "Although I have to admit Holmes, you are blinded by your intellect when it comes to simple problems." The doctor leaned back and put his feet upon the coffee table.

Holmes eyed his friend before sitting beside him. "I have no idea what you are implying, Watson. But I-"

"I'm implying that your genius sometimes overlooks puzzles that are less clever than others," Watson explained.

Holmes thought a moment. "Yes, well. That may be the case _sometimes _Watson, but I assure you my occupation need not worry. I do not concern myself with crime on a ordinary level, thusclever is always an abundant factor inthe cases I take"

Watson rolled his eyes. "So _Mr. Clever_, how do you suppose we are going to get back to 1886?"

Holmes got to his feet, thoughtlessly tossing the instrument aside, rubbing his chin and pacing the room. It wasn't often someone uttered a question he didn't know the answer to right away.

"Whatever it was that gypsy woman put into our tea, obviously is some sort of supernatural element. That is the only _logical_ explanation. Now I fear returning back to the proper era of which you and I previously resided might not be as easy as we hope."

The doctor's brows furrowed and he leaned forward. "What are you getting at Holmes?"

The eccentric detective hesitated and took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"You aren't seriously suggesting that we are stuck here, are you Holmes?" Watson pried.

"What I'm suggesting is that it's a fair possibility."

Watson stood up, eyes glaring. "I can't stay here!"

"Why? I see no pressing matter that calls us home. I'm here, and you're here. What else matters?"

"My wife!" Watson scolded. "Mary!? I can't just leave Mary and live with you in the future!"

Holmes frowned. "I have yet to see the downside to staying."

Watson narrowed his eyes, and pointed a finger at his friend. "I am not staying here.

The detective pursed his lips, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He looked at his dearest friend with wide, puerile brown eyes, and slouched into one of the chairs closest to the fireplace. Watson had seen the act many times while the two had shared residency. Holmes often acted like a child, but the detective took pouting to a whole different level. He always sat, hunched over, staring off blankly or seemingly interested in something unimportant, glancing solemnly in Watson's direction for a brief second. At one time, the doctor couldn't resist his friend's feigned grief, but he'd soon learned to overlook it.

Watson rolled his eyes and sat back down. "You know that won't work," he sighed.

Holmes's eyes narrowed and he quickly got to his feet to once again and maneuvered around the cluttered coffee table to set next to his friend. "Watson, since you are so keen to return to your dreadfully humdrum lifestyle of husband and wife, I shall make a deal with you."

"Oh god." Watson brought his palms to his face and covered his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

"I promise to return us home if-"

The detective hesitated, thinking quickly. "If. . .?" Watson cajoled.

"If you are to help me on one more case. Here. In this era. Now."

Watson looked confused. "What are you talking about Holmes?"

"Upon my arrival of this time period, like you I wished to find somewhere familiar, and of course Baker Street was the rational thought. However I was whisked away by Scotland Yard for what I understand as 'breaking and entering.' I immediately called for Lestrade, who in this time period may actually hold some intelligence, who proceeded to call for a Sherlock Holmes." Holmes stood, once again holding the violin bow in his hand as he paced the small room. "I can tell by your dumbfounded expression you are as confused as I was." Holmes noted before he began again. "Much to my surprise, I found myself in the presence of another Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "So there are two of you? Fan-tastic."

"Ah yes. There are also two of you, my dear Watson. Who also is a doctor, and both he and my other self live here at 221 B Baker Street. Our exact same address, with none other than a reincarnation of our dear landlady. . .Ms Hudson."

Everything spewing from Holmes's mouth was too much for the doctor to comprehend immediately. He sat baffled on the old sofa, staring wide eyed and disbelieving at his friend. Watson wondered if finally both he and Holmes had cracked.

"So essentially what you are saying is there are duplicates of us in the future?" Even saying it sounded crazy.

Holmes nodded. "I believe so. Somehow there are two of us."

Watson was quiet a moment, stirring his thoughts over in his head. He genuinely had a hard time questioning Holmes accusations, because most of his incoherent nonsense- however unbelievable- was usually true. This, on the other hand sounded like it was coming from someone completely mental.

"So we are stuck in the future, one-hundred and twenty-six years in the future. . ."

"Yes, with potential duplicates of everyone we know." Holmes finished, matter-of-factly.

"Have you completely lost it Holmes!?" Watson shouted.

"On the contrary! In this new era I have become enlightened! Watson, I understand how this could confuse your delicate intellect, but you have got to accept this strange reality!"

Both the doctor and the detective were face to face, standing, Watson looking a mixture of confused and frustrated, while his counterpart seemed both amused and annoyed.

"Are we interrupting something?" said a deep voice in the direction of the door way suddenly.

Holmes looked to find Sherlock, donning his long coat and blue scarf with an eyebrow raised, and beside him the doctor.

"I told you Watson!" Holmes practically cheered. "Might I introduce you to _Sherlock _Holmes, and Dr. John Watson."


	11. John and Dr Watson

**A/N: Okay so I owe you guys one Hell of an apology. October is always a super busy month for me with midterms, costume making and Halloween parties. (I'm a bit of a Halloween nut) and i was so stressed during my midterms i couldn't focus at all on my story's and then I had to find a new beta and such so I AM SOOOOOOO SORRRY! I know this chapter is sorta just 'filler' chapter and its not very long but it's what i could squeeze out of my brain. I'm sorry again, and THANK YOU FOR ALL OF THE ALERTS AND REVIEWS AND EVERYTHING! I'll stop now and let you read. **

**Enjoy!**

**Chels**

* * *

><p>Chapter 11<p>

Sherlock shrugged out of his long coat seemingly uninterested in their newest house guest, while John, like usual, was utterly confused. Watson stood with his mouth slightly agape for a moment, staring at both men who walked into the room.

"Just the reaction I was waiting for." Holmes smirked, glancing at his friend's stunned expression. He danced around the shocked 19th century doctor and placed himself next to his 21st century equivalent- who detained much the same disposition.

"You did not believe me either, did you?" He jested with a wicked grin.

"It would seem both John and your friend, who we shall refer to as Watson, are equally mystified by the fact that there is now two of them," Sherlock stated dully ruining Holmes's fun.

The slender detective placed himself at the small table between the tall windows of Baker Street, removing the bag containing the mysterious engagement ring as well as a compact digital camera.

While Sherlock was at work with his laptop, John decided to introduce himself to the man with the mustache.

"I- um. . .I'm John Watson." He held out his hand, and Watson smiled, shaking it.

"Dr?"

John laughed. "Yes. Dr. John Watson, that would be the proper title."

"Same." Watson smiled awkwardly. "It's really a pleasure to meet you."

John agreed quickly. "Yes. Very bizarre circumstances, but a pleasure."

Both doctors stood side by side awkwardly watching their colleagues. Sherlock's blue eyes were locked on to the computer screen, while Holmes was sprawled across the sofa fiddling with the violin bow again. Holmes stole a glance in Sherlock's direction everso often, anxiously wanting to know what was so fascinating about the glowing book of his- almost to a point where he envied the detective's knowledge of the device. He stood up, discarding the bow, and slumped into the seat opposite Sherlock, staring at him. At first Sherlock seemed unaware of the other man's gazes, but soon he began to grind his teeth in annoyance.

"I feel that I should apologize in advance for my friend's unconventional temperament." Watson murmured to John with an apologetic look masking his features.

John raised a brow and chuckled lightly. "You obviously haven't met Sherlock."

Watson was confused briefly by the man's statement and John eyed his flat mate pointedly.

"You and I, for whatever reason, are essentially the same person. Thus I know bloody well what it's like to live with someone with the personality of a spoiled know-it-all."

Watson smirked at the man, liking him already. Although, he guessed it wasn't that strange to befriend someone so similar to himself.

"Yes," he smiled. "It seems we both carry the same . . . burden."

John laughed and gestured to the sofa, where they both took a seat, since both Sherlocks were currently occupied. It wasn't ten seconds later that Sherlock finally spoke.

"John," there was a hint of fiendish excitement in his voice. "Have a look at this."

Holmes and Watson shared a glance and John's brows furrowed as he got to his feet with a slight grunt. He ambled over behind Sherlock's chair and looked at the bright computer screen. Shock consumed his previous cool disposition when his eyes focused on what Sherlock had discovered. Displayed on the screen where several compromising photographs of the last victim, with a man who was not her fiancé.

"How did you get these?" he asked looking at the digital photos open on his flat mate's computer. Sherlock picked up the digital camera sitting next to his laptop. "I procured this at the fiancé's flat."

"You mean you stole it." John frowned.

"Whatever."

By this point, Holmes could no longer control himself. His curiosity got the better of him and he had to see what all the fuss was about. Holmes eyes grew wide at the sight of the carnal snapshots. It wasn't often that Holmes found something that shocked him. "I say, that is defiantly something you don't see in 1886."

The 19th century detective's statement sparked Watson's curiosity. "What is it Holmes?" He began to stand from the sofa but Holmes rushed to stop him before he could.

"Ahh. . .Perhaps you shouldn't pry Watson." He suggested lightly.

The Doctor's brow pulled together.

"You are a married man after all." Holmes added, giving him a knowing look.

"I think we found where our mysterious engagement ring came from," John told the detective at the computer.

"Obviously." A smile lined his pale lips creating shadowed creases in his cheeks.

"What?" John pried failing to see the same enjoyment in their new evidence.

"Oh, this case John." His smile widened. "This case reeks of a genius mind shouting for attention. . ."

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his smirking mouth, never breaking his glance with the racy pictures. Holmes, who wasn't as up to date with the case as he wished, moved back to glance at the woman in the pictures.

"So I'm assuming this young woman is the one Lestrade found this morning?" He crossed his arms and waited for Sherlock to reply.

"Her name was Bethany Williams." John spoke, answering for his friend. "Found viciously slaughtered in Whitechapel. . ."

Holmes thought a moment, pacing the room. "This is the second of the killings am I correct? Which also happened in Whitechapel. Thus making this similar to those murders Sherlock spoke about yesterday evening."

Sherlock's grin melted. "Please stop talking."

Holmes smirked sarcastically, ignoring the detectives wish and continued thinking aloud. "I remember from reading the case book, each victim was an, um, unfortunate. Perhaps, judging by the photographs, we are dealing with the same thing."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, it is very possible we are dealing with a 'copy-cat-killer'." He sounded annoyed, then he looked to John. "What do we know about Nani Hanover?"

John raised a brow. "The first victim?"

Sherlock nodded.

"She was wealthy, an heiress I think you mentioned. Why?"

The smirked returned to his lips and he opened a web browser and typed in the victim's name. Unsurprisingly, the first links that popped up were headlines telling about her 'Animalistic slaying'. Sherlock, though, settled for a biography site.

"It seems our first victim wasn't as innocent as one would believe."

John's eyes didn't read as fast as Sherlock's but it was obvious what he meant.

Watson, who'd stayed silent the whole time, decided to put in his two cents. "Are either of the victims connected to each other, other than the fact that they um, you know. . ."

"No, they didn't know each other; there was no connection."

"Aw on the contrary," Holmes stated holding up an index finger. "It seems we have found a connection."

Both John and Watson looked at the man confused, Sherlock however was off in thought once again, his expression vacant.

"If both of our victims partook in such scandals, we should look deeper into them." Holmes stated matter-of-factly.

Sherlock suddenly started putting on his coat and scarf, not having said anything.

"Ah, where are you going?" John asked.

"Scotland Yard. I need Ms. Hanover's case file, surely by now the Detective Inspector has finished most of the paperwork." From the way he spoke, it was apparent that he doubted his own words. Lestrade was notorious for pushing off paperwork and updating files, which displeased the tall consulting detective.

"Watson, fetch your jacket." Holmes instructed taking his from the back of Sherlock's armchair.

Sherlock frowned, narrowing his eyes at his historical house guest. "You are staying here. Both of you."

Holmes pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. "I insist we accompany you. Not only am I immensely intrigued by this case, but I cannot stand one more second caged inside this flat like some sort of animal!"

Watson stood up. "Perhaps my friend and I could be of assistance." The doctor tried a kinder tone, to persuade the detective.

"I have no need for either of your meager capabilities of assistance." Sherlock scoffed moving towards the doorway. "Come along John."

Holmes swiftly scurried around the coffee table and blocked the door way. The look on his face was slightly more mincing, verging on the distorted face of a mad man. "I obviously did not make myself clear. Watson and I will be accompanying you, as well as helping solve this case. I refuse to return to the past without doing so."

The detectives eyed each other with matching intensity, and John could almost see the flames engulfing Sherlock with rage. Sherlock was used to dealing with people he couldn't tolerate, but Sherlock Holmes was a man he not only couldn't tolerate, but was beginning to despise.

The tall detective smiled smugly down at the shorter detective. "Try to keep up." He looked at John and pushed Holmes aside and they both made their way down stairs.

Holmes smirked devilishly before following. "Well, we'll see who has to keep up with whom."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: One last thing, it's probably too much to ask after leaving you hanging for almost two months but Leave me a review and I will reply to as many as i can. **

***I'm also in the process of writing an Avengers Fic featuring Clint Barton (Hawkeye) and Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow) so I'd love for those of you who are an avengers fan like me to check that out when i get it posted!**


	12. Two Suspects

**A/N: I hate that I keep apologizing for taking so long to update, cause you guys shouldn't have to forgive me, and I shouldn't have to ask to be forgiven. . .I should however update this sooner for you fine Sherlockians to read! School has been haywire an one of my friends just moved away so I've been emotional and detracted and working on various other fics (which you should check out if you haven't already). Plus the holiday season is in full swing and I've been busy doing Xmas shopping. But enough with my poor excuses, here is the next chapter! **

**ENJOY!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12<strong>

Detective Inspector Lestrade sat at his desk, feet perched on the smooth but messy surface, leaning back in his chair. It was starting to get dark out and the end of his workday was approaching. With his remote in his hand he scanned through the TV channels looking for something to spark his interest until the clock on his desk told him it was time to finally go home.

There was a slight commotion taking place outside his office but he continued to focus solely on the television on his wall.

"I told him he can't be here!" Donovan suddenly bust through his office door scowling. Sherlock and John where trailing behind her, and two others behind them. With the sudden change in occupants in the cramped office space, the inspector suddenly felt an alarming sense of claustrophobia creep up on him.

He stood up quickly hopping that by doing so he could dull the growing panic within him and addressed Donovan first.

"It's okay Sally, just go back to work." He motioned with a wave of his hand towards the door.

She left swiftly but not before giving both Sherlock and Holmes a long vicious glare. Lestrade sat back down feeling better as soon as she was out of the room.

"I need Nani Hanover's case file," Sherlock demanded leaning on Lestrade's desk, eyeing him intensely.

"I haven't finished all the paper work yet. . . "

Sherlock rolled his eyes and glowered. "Clearly, I'm not surprised."

The tall detective had no patience when it came to Lestrade's constant inability to finish paperwork promptly.

"Then perhaps you should give us what you have completed Inspector. Seems you persistently neglect your civil duties of this fine city, not only in this century but the last. " Holmes stated arrogantly. He placed himself beside his counterpart at Lestrade's desk and eyed him as well.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and his scowl deepened. The Detective Inspector, however, looked more than a little confused. "That's the bloke that we arrested yesterday."

"Obviously." Sherlock was more annoyed than usual.

"Why is he here?" Lestrade asked. "And who is that?" He pointed to Watson who was leaning against the wall watching the whole ordeal.

John laughed humorlessly and stepped in front of his flatmate to explain briefly the past twenty four hours. "Sherlock claims that these men are ourselves from the 19th century."

"It's the only logical explanation!" Sherlock groaned growing tired of the senselessness of the current conversation. He seemed to be the only one, apart from possibly Holmes who was interested in getting the file he needed.

"Then how did they get here Sherlock?" Lestrade was skeptical.

"Tea!" Holmes shouted.

"Holmes. . ." his friend warned with a sigh.

"Watson and I ingested a very strong blend of tea that upon drinking sent he and I to this century."

Sherlock and John listened, this being the first they'd heard of the 'magical' tea.

"It was that Gypsy woman I tell you!" He pointed to Watson. "I thought there was something strange about her. She's to blame!"

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing how mad his friend sounded. He hoped that this century could handle him, where their own barley could.

"For whatever reason, they are here Inspector and your apparent interest in this case is waning." Sherlock droned. "Don't make me ask twice for the woman's' file." He held out his gloved hand, his cold eyes piercing the older inspector.

Hesitantly Lestrade stood glancing at each of the four men occupying his office. He sauntered over to a tan file cabinet and removed a single folder. Sherlock snatched it from him before the inspector could hand it to him. Sherlock's blue irises darted back and forth across the papers concealed within the folder mentally documenting what he needed to solve the case.

Holmes eagerly shoved John aside and rushed to peek at the evidence file lying open in the tall detective's hands. John and Watson shared a quick glance, as if to mentally apologize for each others flatmate and moved to stand close enough to read some of what Sherlock was documenting. Lestrade however stood behind his desk, hands firmly crossed against his chest marveling at the group. He had a difficult time not believing something Sherlock said even if the accusations sounded like incoherent ravings of a lunatic.

"Not sure the world can handle two of you," he mused setting back in his desk chair. "I can barely control one of you. I doubt very much if I can do it with both of you."

Sherlock frowned, narrowing his crystal blue eyes. "You do not control me."

He snapped the file shut and thrust it against Holmes's chest. "Since you have shown more intellectual emblems- apart from your lack of knowledge of technology- I want you to gather what you can on this Hanover girl. I'd usually send John on an errand like this but since you keep insisting that the only way you are going to remove yourself from both this century and my flat, I'll leave it to you."

John made a face, rising a brow at his flatmate's comment, as a one sided smirk shadowed his lips. Sherlock really couldn't wait to get rid of his counterpart, enough to the point he was letting him help with the case- which was very much against everything he knew about his flatmate.

"John and I are going to pay Bethany's boss a visit. Meet back at Baker Street when you think you've obtained all that you can. Then I'll decide if you actually are me or not."

Holmes gawked at the papers wide eyed and eager, like a child on Christmas morning, at the papers in his hands. Excitement was coursing through his blood stream at record breaking speed, the game was afoot and it thrilled him.

"Sherlock I can't let him take those files off of the premises."

"Fear not," Holmes chirped shutting the file and tossing it to Lestrade. "I've looked over all the information I need. Come along Watson, we have a case to solve."

The 19th century detective grinned smugly at Sherlock and Lestrade as he exited the office with Watson behind him.

John watched them get on the elevator, shaking his head. "Not your best idea letting him loose on London."

"Oh it's not London I'd be worried about." Sherlock grinned fiendishly.

* * *

><p>Holmes and Watson stood at the door of a flat, near the Brompton district of London. The address had been listed in Ms. Hanover's file as an emergency contact and Holmes decided right away that it was the best place to start.<p>

There was a light on and movement radiating from the window closest to the front door. The building itself wasn't in bad shape, Holmes guessed for the century, but it really wasn't grand either. The bricks where slightly faded, which meant the building wasn't old, however the number of replaced bricks indicated the structure was poorly built.

"Who are we talking to?" Watson asked while they waited for someone to answer the door.

"I believe their names are Levi and Paige, close friends of our first victim," Holmes stated.

The door suddenly opened, reviling a young man in his mid to late twenties, which Holmes greeted as Levi.

"Do I know you?" the man asked giving the detective a once over from head to toe.

"Not unless you are from the year 1886, otherwise I suspect not," Holmes chided broadly.

Watson sighed and held out his hand. "I'm Dr. John Watson. This is my friend Sherlock Holmes. We ah."

"We've come to question you about your dead friend so be a dear and let us in out of this blistery weather." Holmes finished giving Levi as superior grin.

Once the initial shock of the detective's presumptuous statement wore off, Levi stepped aside to let them in.

"Are you some kind of police officers?" he asked closing the door.

"No, no, heavens no." Holmes shook his head. "I refuse to be categorized with those imprudent municipal workers."

"He's a Private detective," Watson explained.

"Consulting."

"Whatever. Anyway, we apologize for intruding, but we spotted your name in Nani Hanover's file as a friend so we'd like to ask you a few questions."

Levi lead the two men into a living area and motioned for them to set in individual chairs taking the sofa across from them. "Sure, anything to catch the killer."

Watson sat, removing his hat and placing it on the end of his cane which he propped against the side of the chair he was using.

"Okay," Watson started. "Could you tell us what kind of personality Ms. Hanover had?"

Although it seemed as though Holmes wasn't paying attention to the exchange taking place, he was busy with his own form of questioning. He looked at the walls for answers, at the pictures lining the mantel of the fireplace, the unfolded blanket on the floor, the empty tea cup on the table beside him, the stains and wrinkles on Levi's shirt he wore. It all spoke valuable words to him, silently giving him much of the answers he needed.

"Where is your fianceé? Paige?"

Levi stopped mid-sentence and looked to the detective with his mouth slightly agape. "Umm she's in class until almost 10:30."

"She comes straight back here I'm guessing?" Holmes steepled his fingers, raising his elbows on the wide arms of the chair. His brown eyes stared fiercely at the man he was speaking with, deducing everything he said and all of his body language.

"Well lately she's been staying later, working on her thesis and studying for her finals." Levi clarified.

"Must be lonely here by yourself," Holmes stated. Watson could sense something behind his friends' statement.

"Yes, well uh, I stay busy with work." Levi explained.

"I see." Holmes pursed his lips. "And what did you say your relationship with Ms. Hanover was." Again the detective's words seemed to imply something else.

"She was Paige's best friend-"

"Yes, you said that before Mr. Carter." Holmes interrupted. "I asked about your relation to Ms. Hanover, not your fiancée's"

Levi shifted uncomfortable where he was setting. He swallowed and directed his focus to his feet for a short moment than returned his gaze back to Holmes.

"What do you mean?"

Holmes smirked detecting the uneasiness in the man's voice. He eyed Levi for a long time, not answering his questions. Watson gave his friend a confused glance.

"Holmes."

The detective perked up with raised eyebrows and turned to the doctor.

"I have what I need I think," the detective said as he stood. "Coming doctor?"

Without uttering another word to Levi, Holmes started sauntering towards the front door. Watson got to his feet quickly.

"We'll be in touch," he said to the man, and followed Holmes out the door.

* * *

><p>"Why are we here?" John asked.<p>

Sherlock had brought him to a classier district in the city that in comparison to the last home they visited made it look like a shack. The cars parked by the curb where elegant and sporty, unlike the mediocre ones from earlier. The structure was built with a sandy colored stone, with brass numbers on each of the doors. Even their own flat couldn't match the ones surrounding them.

His detective friend smiled at him, one of his smiles that meant he wasn't going to answer and instead would just have to wait to see. John, in response, scowled and folded his arms across his chest. Sherlock knocked twice on the door of flat number 15 and waited as patiently as he knew how.

The man that answered the door struck a nerve as soon as John laid eyes on him, and soon realized that the man in the doorway was the man in the pictures Sherlock had discovered earlier. Sherlock must have noticed the odd look on the shorter man's face which caused him to smirk.

"Can I help you?" the man sounded annoyed.

"Yes, one of your employees was found dead this morning," Sherlock stated. "We have some questions concerning your relationship to her."

"You're Sherlock Holmes and John Watson aren't you?" The man smiled slightly. "Bloody Hell. I thought that blog shit was fake."

Both John and Sherlock frowned. "Nope it's quite real. And what name should I call you? Or shall I just make one up since I don't exist?"

The smile faded quickly from the man's face. "Peter Eichert."

The man looked at both the detective and the doctor for a long time before a smug smile graced his thin lips. John could tell he already didn't care for the man's attitude.

"Don't suppose I have much of a choice do I?" he asked.

"I'm afraid not," Sherlock retorted.

Peter shrugged and walked back into his flat, leaving the door open for Sherlock and John to follow. The interior of the structure was much like the outside; well-kept and stylish. No traces of peeling wallpaper or chipping paint. Everything was how it was meant to be.

The man absentmindedly waved his guests into the living area and continued on into the open kitchen that adjoined the living space. He pulled a crystal glass from a well-stocked cupboard and popped the cork from a bottle of wine. Without offering any to John or Sherlock he poured his glass, and placed the bottled back once he'd finished.

"Yes," Mr. Eichert started before he entered where Sherlock and John were sitting. "Bethany and I shared a physical relationship, in secret of course. We couldn't have that loser fiancé of her's finding out. It was just for kicks at first. . ." the man sat down opposite the detective and the doctor sipping his wine. "But then it shifted into something more. For me at least."

"How long after you purposed to her did she turn you down and decide to kill her?" Sherlock probed, uninterested in the man's story.

Peter laughed humorlessly shaking his head. "You are good." He took another sip. "I was mad she'd rather be with that photographer than me," he confessed. "But I didn't kill her."

Sherlock's calculating glare didn't seem to faze the man. Instead he continued drinking, matching the detectives glare.

"Is there anything else you two need from me?" Peter asked with a sigh. "Because I have company coming over this evening and I don't want the both of you to ruin it."

"We were just about to leave," Sherlock stated looking to John.

"We were? But you did-"

"I have the information that I came for John. There isn't a need to be here any longer."

Sherlock stood giving Peter a repugnant smile and fastened the buttons on his long coat. John got up as well and followed his friend to the door. For once he didn't care that Sherlock didn't utter a goodbye, John could only handle one person with arrogant inflexible behavior and that was Sherlock. Superciliousness radiating off of any other being other than his flatmate was just rude.

* * *

><p>"So what now?" John asked as they road back to Baker Street in a taxi. "You barely said anything to that jerk and yet somehow walked out of his flat with loads of information no doubt."<p>

"Although Mr. Eichert has all the personality traits of a psychotic criminal, his ego makes it impossible for him to keep any exciting secrets to himself."

"So he's like you." John probed just to see what his friend would say.

Sherlock frowned but didn't deny it. "He was my first suspect initially. But before we left I found ticket stubs from a theater sticking out of his coat pocket that was dated for yesterday evening around the time of the murder."

"He's got an alibi." John sulked.

"Afraid so."

The pair road in silence a while longer and finally they were back home. Sherlock paid the cabby and got out with John right behind him. Mrs. Hudson greeted them as soon as they both entered 221 looking disgruntled.

"Sherlock, you've got to do something about your new friend. He keeps insisting he lives here and that I shouldn't keep the door locked." She paused. "He keeps calling me 'devil woman' I really do not want him here."

Irritation flashed across the detective's features. "Trust me Mrs. Hudson. I am doing all I can to make him leave."

John gave the landlady a sympathetic smile and followed Sherlock upstairs to make sure he wasn't going to murder his other self.

Holmes was seated at the small cluttered table with the laptop screen open and on. He wasn't doing anything to it; he was simply staring at the screen blankly, with a scowl across his brow. Watson on the other hand was in the kitchen making tea.

"If you plan on staying here any longer I think it best for you not to speak with my landlady at all." Sherlock commanded removing his coat and scarf.

In the kitchen Watson's snickers could be heard. Sherlock sat down and removed the lap top from in front of the shorter detective, who sneered and growled ever so slightly deep within his throat. Hearing the strange sound John's brows furrowed. "Did you just-"

"Growl?" Watson finished entering the room with a cup of tea in each hand. "Yeah, he does that occasionally." He paused to shake his head then handed his spare cup to John. "Here, this was originally for him, but he's more than capable of getting it himself."

Holmes shot his friend a look, somewhere between annoyance and disappointment, but soon returned to glowering at his counterpart.

"Thank you," John said taking a sip of the warm drink. "So, what did you guys find?"

"Something useful I hope." Sherlock droned.

The sour look on Holmes's face disappeared as he stood, and both John and Watson knew from the smirk on his lips they were in for a long deduction.

"First I must ask you," he pointed to Sherlock. "When you found our first victim, was she in fact wearing a deep red shade of lipstick? If I had this information prior to now I could go on with my finding, however I am confident that my theories are true. . ."

"Yes." Sherlock answered mechanically, eyeing the detective who was pacing the small living area.

A grin lit Holmes's entire face. "Superb. Levi is not our killer; however he was sleeping with Ms. Hanover despite being promised to his fianceé. My suspensions of such actions were first aroused when I saw the pictures on your err computer, I suspected that if in fact each murder was brought out by the same person, than perhaps adultery is a linking component to these ravenous murders. It wasn't until I caught site of the deep red shade of lipstick on young Levi's shirt collar that my suspensions were confirmed."

"How do you know it's not from his fianceé?" Watson pried- hearing this information for the first time.

"Did you not take notice of the pictures of her?" Holmes countered, with a smug smirk and raised brow. "She wears nothing of the sort. Plus the shirt Levi was wearing was from yesterday judging by the amount of wrinkles in it. The buttons were even fastened in the wrong holes which means he put it on quickly just before he answered the door."

He looked to Sherlock; waiting for the praise he thought would be awaiting him once he'd finished only to find the detective with the same expressionless composure.

"I suppose if that's all you could pick up it will have to do," he said broadly. "It's more than Lestrade would have been able to pick up." Sherlock stood from his seat, gabbing both his phone and his laptop and trudged off into his room shutting an locking the door behind him.

"That's about as close to a complement as you are going to get with Sherlock." John admitted seeing the look on Holmes's face.

"Lestrade is incapable of police work," Holmes stated hotly, ignoring the short doctor. He removed Sherlock's violin from the shelf and slumped across the sofa to pout.

John was completely overwhelmed having to deal with two versions of his flatmate and Watson took notice.

"I'll deal with him," he said with a meaningful smile. "Go and sleep. We'll survive right here."

"You're sure?"

Watson glanced at his friend. "Yes, he's put me through worse. Living arrangements I mean."

John could only guess what he meant but he decided not to ask. The day had been long and full of more odd situations than he could have imagined and right at that moment sleep sounded like a wonderful idea.

"Eh good night," he said awkwardly as he made his way to his own bed.


End file.
